


A Very Bond Musical

by Linorien, opalescentgold, Pigfarts23, SvengoolieCat, Venstar



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Crack, Humor, Multi, Musicals, SPECTRE Fix-It, Shakespearian insults, Tiber shark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-04 20:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 27,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18820390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linorien/pseuds/Linorien, https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalescentgold/pseuds/opalescentgold, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigfarts23/pseuds/Pigfarts23, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SvengoolieCat/pseuds/SvengoolieCat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venstar/pseuds/Venstar
Summary: A modern musical retelling of the Bond Classic: Spectre. With added snark and commentary from one dead Olivia Mansfield.Original song lyrics by Pig, Ven, and Lin. Book by Opal, Lin, Ven, Sven, and Pig.





	1. Act I: Scene One: The Dead Are Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much to [Cas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/) for editing this and helping us make it into something coherent.

# 

#  **Act I**

First, there’s darkness. Silence. It’s broken by a voice both steady and grim, determined and resigned, singing quietly with an odd echo that sounds like death.

####  **SHADOWS**

A slow mysterious melody begins.

M:           We work in the shadows, that’s where we do battle.  
               And battle is coming.  
               We’ve seen this before. Put the pieces together.  
               A pattern is forming.  
               To strive, to seek, to fight…  
               At least I got one thing right.

* * *

 

##  _Scene One: The Dead Are Alive_

**M: “For those of you without the correct security clearance, and assuming the secrets of our nation are still secrets, my name is Olivia Mansfield, previously known as M, the head of MI6. I was killed in Scotland approximately one year ago.**

**This is what happened when my lazy sod of an agent finally got off his arse and started finishing the job.”**

It’s the Day of the Dead in Mexico City, and no one but the very, very passionate are indoors. Sugar skulls and golden marigolds abound, keeping company with the costumed people frolicking in the streets.

Above, a blond man wearing a fancy suit and a big Q-branch rocket launcher slung across his shoulder jumps across two rooftops and continues walking smoothly towards an unknown destination. He adjusts his cufflinks absently, paying no mind to the laughing, rambunctious group of celebrators.

**M: “In my day, we took pride in our agents…”**

From the parade below, music drifts to him on the breeze as he settles himself on a roof with the rocket launcher in place. Peering calmly through his scope, he sees that his target is very passionate about his business indeed.

**M: “...our discretion…”**

He observes the meeting taking place for a moment with a smile that never reaches his cold blue eyes. “Fuck you,” he says cheerfully and fires. Within seconds, an explosion cripples the building, forcing him to take cover. Minutes after that, and he’s running for his life like a very agile mountain goat.

**M: “...and apparently, our ability to throw all of that out the window and fly by the seat of our pants. Damn it, 007!”**

As buildings, old and beautiful and fragile, begin to fall like dominoes, 007 resorts to clinging desperately onto a shaking piece of wall.

**M: “I would love to say it’s just him, too, but all of the Double-Ohs are a pain in their own way. Still, they’ve got their uses when they’re not being idiots. Which isn’t often, regrettably.”**

Ruthlessly, the wall crumbles around him. With no other choice than to let go and slide towards dangerous debris, 007 braces himself for a few more holes in his flesh, only to land on a conveniently placed sofa.  

He pauses. “Okay then.”

Apparently unfazed by this recent date with death, 007 stands up, casually brushes the dirt off of his suit, and struts away from the scene of the crime. Unfortunately, just as he’s thinking of returning to the lovely lady he left in bed, he catches sight of his sworn enemy.

Mr Sciarra is bloody and bruised, but he’s not dead yet. A mad stare-off ensues. The world stands still. No one dares to move.

After long seconds, 007 blinks. Mr Sciarra promptly bolts like the White Rabbit. His eye twitching, 007 growls threateningly.

**M: “What the hell was that, Bond? Don’t you ever learn from your missions? Is it really so hard, killing your enemies stone-dead?”**

A determined chase begins. They dart through the crowds lining the streets, paying no mind to the happy citizens they push to the ground in the hopes of miraculously gaining more speed in the ever thicker crowds.

“Excuse me,” Bond says to the people he shoves. His words are barely audible; most of his breath is devoted to the all-important task of keeping him alive.

**M: “Oh, get over it. You’re not the one who died.”**

Above the hopeful and excited crowd, a helicopter whirls with the utmost ominous air.

Humming, it lands in the middle of the plaza with no care for the civilians it almost sends flying. Mr Sciarra scrambles aboard with all the grace of a deer on ice.

007 leaps onto the helicopter just as they lift off and cheerfully tackles Mr Sciarra inside the cabin. Mr Sciarra whimpers.

While the pilot of the helicopter attempts to maintain control and the poor crowd screams below, 007 and Mr Sciarra indulge in a bit of casual wrestling. Like skydivers, they end up momentarily hanging out of the helicopter in preparation for flight.

“I may be loyal to my organisation heart and soul,” the pilot mutters, clinging desperately to his controls, “but I didn’t sign up for this, damn it!”

**M: “Hmph. You should have read the fine print then. Terrorist organisations are always like this. At least when I blackmailed** **_my_ ** **agents into entering my service, I told them upfront they would die in ways beyond their imagination for Queen and Country.”**

With the ground so very far away, the two men both dive back inside after a bit more light rough-housing. Scared to death, the pilot attempts a headshot but is derailed when their helicopter decides to, for all intents and purposes, become a bird under 007’s firm hand.  

In a spectacular turnabout, rather than flying in straight lines, the helicopter swings and twirls and dives. Below, a young girl points up at the sky and says to her frantic mother, “Look, Mama! The show’s started early this year!”

Her mother very stoically stifles a sob.

**M: “That man thinks he can control any vehicle, but he really can’t. Luck of the devil indeed. Although if he ever has made a deal with the devil, the devil in question would be me.”**

In the chaos, Mr Sciarra is kicked out of the helicopter, his precious ring ripped off of his finger. Having no parachute at hand, he dies shortly afterwards, courtesy of the unforgiving pavement. No one but his tailor mourns him for a second.

After several more fancy acrobatics, Newton’s best discovery takes hold of the pilot as he is tossed unceremoniously out of his own helicopter.

**M: “Well, he’s been put out of his misery. And his contract.”**

Although he’s almost died seven times since stepping foot upon the helicopter, 007 is none the worse off for it. He finally takes control of the helicopter and flies off. The blades cutting through the air thrum a steady beat as 007 begins to sing in a low, harsh tone.

####  **JUST GETTING STARTED**

A single horn accompanies the beat of a drum.

Bond:      A mission from the Lady carried out  
               On this day of the dead, I’ve killed a man.  
               Done in cold blood with witnesses on hand  
               Can’t hide this from the living, secret’s out.

               Did I go a step too far?  
               Am I just getting started?

               MI6 doesn’t play that way, and yet  
               Still I stay, a blunt instrument they made  
               Will my actions on this day lead to war?  
               Time will tell and this will be revealed.

               Am I finished,  
               or am I just getting started?

               Leaving Mexico behind, heading home  
               The sun in my eyes, the wind at my back  
               What am I heading towards? What’s the next quest?  
               Eyes on the dead, all will come to a head.

               One more clue gathered;  
               I am just getting started.

 

**_MUSIC CUE: Bond Theme Song [Dr. No theme spin off ]_ **


	2. Scene Two: Rebellion in the Ranks

##  _ Scene Two: Rebellion in the Ranks _

When 007 sits down in front of the new head of MI6, Gareth Mallory, he does so with an air of having done nothing wrong. Ever. In his entire life. For a moment, they stare politely at each other, two alpha males who don’t know when to give up. Instead, they have the world’s most tense tea party. Delicate teacups full of steaming Earl Grey sit in front of each of them. Although Bond prefers coffee, the smell of Earl Grey reminds Bond of Q, so he doesn’t mind it very much. The tea is surprisingly soothing on his temper. 

M counts on that reaction and makes sure to have a pot brewed whenever he has to deal with MI6’s favorite problem child. He doesn’t even  _ like  _ Earl Grey, but he drinks it down with grim determination anyway. Bond sips his own tea with chilly serenity, oblivious to M’s machinations. 

**M: “This here is my replacement. Heaven knows what’s going on in that empty skull. No wonder MI6 has been on the downhill road with him at the helm. Honestly, a merger with the fools of** **_MI5_ ** **?”**

“Start anywhere you like. Take your time, 007, but in five minutes, the head of the Joint Security Service is going to walk through that door, and I've got to explain to him how one of our agents decided to potter off to Mexico, all on his own, and cause an international incident,” says Mallory.

**M: “No, no, you never go about disciplining a Double-Oh like that, much less 007. Shut your mouth right now, Mallory, you’re only making things worse. And stop tainting my desk with that leaf water Q insists on swilling. If you’re not surviving on** **_coffee_ ** **by now, you’re doing it wrong.”**

007 doesn’t dignify this with anything better than a response that’s nice, vaguely polite and professional, and so full of bullshit that a nearby minion is forced to open a window.

A chilly breeze blows by, ruffling Mallory’s hair dramatically. He shivers.

**M: “What did I say? You’re just making a fool of yourself. Stop that at once.”**

Somewhat surprisingly, no disciplinary action but a grounding and a scolding is given out by M. Just as 007 is on the verge of slipping away, home free but for a gentle slap on the wrist, a man with very greasy hair walks in.

“So sorry,” he says, “am I interrupting?”

**M: “And then there’s** **_this_ ** **idiot.”**

Later, after a mildly insulting and somewhat strange conversation with C, 007 strolls out of the building only to be flagged down by Eve Moneypenny, a beautiful woman with dangerous shoes.

007, also known as James Bond by the right (and wrong) people, is offered a box of his belongings a literal year after they were taken from Skyfall. Surprising no one, he declines the burnt ashes of his past. 

**M: “Are you ever going to grow up, 007?”**

Instead, he invites Moneypenny back to his house and swans off before she can respond. 

**M: “No, shagging everyone you meet isn’t a sign of maturity. Don’t even try.”**


	3. Scene Three: No Shagging Was Involved

##  _ Scene Three: No Shagging Was Involved _

When Moneypenny first opens the door to Bond’s secret lair of a flat - a definite honor or so the grapevine of MI6 seemed to think - she finds herself inhaling the lovely scent of unwashed socks and far too many dust particles. 

She tries valiantly to hold it back, but her second act is to break into a violent, very not-sexy coughing fit. 

“You okay?” James, posed perfectly on the sofa like a model for a trashy and too expensive furniture magazine, eyes her with clear amusement. She freezes and stares when she sees him wearing dad jeans and the rattiest grey t-shirt with holes around the sleeves and collar. Is this 007 in his natural habitat? She wonders if she should take a picture for future blackmail purposes. He leers at her, preening under the attention like one of Q’s cats when they present a dead mouse. 

He’s not nearly as charming as he thinks he is, she thinks sourly.

Moneypenny taps the rather sharp heel of her stiletto on the ground once in warning and saunters into the flat with a moue of distaste. James is not an interior designer, that’s for sure. “Have you just moved in?” she asks incredulously.

“No.”

“At least hire someone to decorate for you. I know you have the money. And a dusting might be in order. I can recommend some people.” Placing a hand on her hip, Moneypenny considers him for a moment. She adds with a wicked grin, “Or I can order a maid costume for pretty boffins.”

James frowns at her, squinting. “You know, you would make a fantastic hen.” He might be drunk - there’s a half-empty bottle of scotch on the table, furiously sharing space with drooping books and bloodstains - but it’s hard to tell.

**M: “He’s definitely drunk.”**

Moneypenny’s sure Q would forgive her if she nailed James’ balls to the wall. Actually, wait, not his balls. His tongue? No, and his hands are off-limits, too. A foot maybe, although the infuriating wanker would probably be able to wiggle out of even that somehow. 

“Here.” She puts his box down on the table instead. “Your delissio.”

“Did I order pizza? I thought I ordered a beautiful woman.” James leers at her. 

**M: “I’m dead, and it still baffles me how he ever gets anyone to look at him twice with his blasted pickup lines. It must be the broken promises and life-threatening situations.”**

Moneypenny is unimpressed. “No. Absolutely not. I deserve trashier pick-up lines, and you know it.”

“That’s an oxymoron. But then, so are you,” comes the deadpan answer. James pours out some scotch into a glass that probably hasn’t been washed in weeks and smirks arrogantly at her. 

She points at him, dagger-sharp fingernail glinting glossy red under the sharp fluorescent lights. “I’ve changed my mind. Q won’t mind if you’re missing both of your feet; he likes to boss people around anyway.”

He blinks. “What?”

“What?” she repeats with the innocence of an angel. Or an agent.

“What?”

**M: “** **_What_ ** **? Would you please just get on with it? I’m more dead with every second I have to spend listening to this moronic argument between preschool children. I’m expecting pigtail pulling any minute now.”**

Moneypenny shakes her head and changes tactics. “What are you up to, James?”

“Communing with the spirits of alcohol,” is the immediate reply as he swirls his dirty glass. “It’s not an easy task, but for the right suit, I’d be willing to do anything.”

She’s indignant. “Not an  _ easy task _ ? The spirits of alcohol are basic stuff; it’s the higher order echelons you have to watch out for. Do you know what I’ve had to do to look this good all the time, day and night? The pacts I’ve made for my shoes? The deals I’ve negotiated for my hair? Don’t you dare, James Bond, don’t you dare. You know nothing.”

“You bribe Q with tea and paperwork help in exchange for your shoes,” James points out. “I concede that your hair might be the work of the devil, though.”

“The devil wishes he had hair as good as mine.” Tossing back her truly luxurious mane of hair, Moneypenny taps her weaponized stiletto heels on the ground. “But Q really is quite helpful. You should have asked for his help in Mexico. You know, slip in an invitation for some sultry rhumba while you’re at it.”

“Does Q like to dance?” James asks with a casualness that’s downright insulting.

**M: “Sometimes I wonder if 007 is actually a secret agent or not. Could he be any more obvious?”**

“Of course he likes to dance. What prim, posh, English boy doesn’t? You should see him late at night when he thinks he’s alone.” Moneypenny’s eyes sparkle, the very picture of mischievous temptation. 

“If it looks anything like his drunken flailing, I think I’ll pass.” James chugs down the rest of his scotch and then looks dizzy. “Forgive me, Moneypenny, but why are you still here?”

“Why am I still here? James, are you kicking me out? With all of your experience, I would think it would take longer for you to finish with me.”

“I would never dare,” he says with utmost solemnity, “but you know I’m such a quick trigger with the right sort of people.”

“Funny, I remember our time together with far more thoroughness. But I guess that’s what happens when you’re in the best position for good memories.” Moneypenny smiles cattily.

**M: “I’ve got so many better things to do with my time. And yet, here I am. Let’s speed this up a bit, shall we?”**

There’s an abrupt VCR-like sound, and then the world fast forwards into nonsense and watercolour.

**M: “Finally, a break from the idiocy.”**

“ - and don’t miss the funeral,” says M from the screen after she finishes her entire spiel about Mr Sciarra and the disaster that was Mexico City. 

James picks up the remote and turns the television off. 

**M: “Bloody hell! I’m glad I don’t have to face mirrors anymore. Did I really have that many wrinkles?”**

“And there it is.” James smiles humorlessly and drinks some more scotch. “That’s what I’m up to.”

“You’re doomed,” Moneypenny says.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Bring Q into this,” Moneypenny orders. “You’ll need his help. I’ll tell Tanner, don’t worry.” She already has her phone out and is texting rapidly with one hand.

“Trust me, I wasn’t worried about that.” James looks like he isn’t sure whether he should be shooting her or not. Either that or fashion a gag from his tie, but that’s not really his thing. “M’s ordered me to visit Q-Branch tomorrow morning; I’ll talk to him then.”

**M: “Liar.”**

“Liar,” Moneypenny says at once. “If you don’t tell him, I will. In fact, I already have.”

“Taking the reins already, Moneypenny?” James leans forward with an appreciative smirk. “You know how much I like a girl with claws.”

“I’m not a cat,” she retorts. “And if you suggest so again, I’ll castrate you with a curling iron, Q’s displeased face or not.” 

“You’re right. He’s more like a kitten than you are.”

“Damn right.” Moneypenny scoffs. “Do tell me you’re finished. I’d hate to get blood all over this nice, never-before used rug.”

James only smiles. “Don’t be ridiculous, Moneypenny. I’m just getting started.”

**M: “Damn right.”**


	4. Scene Four: Work, Work, Work, Work, Work, Work

##  _ Scene Four: Work, Work, Work, Work, Work, Work _

The Quartermaster, also professionally known as Q and the Head of Q-Branch, stands at the front of his bullpen, surveying the progress of his devoted minions with a judgemental eye. It’s altogether much too quiet, and he’s learned to fear the quiet. 

As expected, closer inspection reveals four of his disobedient followers playing Minecraft, three of his subordinates sneakily composing yet another betting pool - last week was the brand of toothpaste 002 uses for his suspiciously-shiny teeth - and two of his seniors hacking into the  _ Italians _ , of all people. 

Q suspects they’re trying to settle the argument he overheard them having two days ago: how many crimes are committed per year over pizza?

Honestly. He never signed up to be a babysitter. 

Q claps his hands sharply, instantly grabbing everyone’s attention. “No, no, no, that’s enough of that,” he says, stalking down the aisle. The minions flinch guiltily and close their tabs as their Evil Overlord passes in a cloud of displeasure and high standards. 

“This just won’t do. Close the fun and games, we’ve got work to do!” he chastises. 

Grumbling but subdued, his techies return to their actual work: pulling up maps, running facial recognition programs, searching for intel, and attempting to find a restaurant 004 will actually deign to grace with her presence before she starves in a fit of posh petulance. 

####  **HAPPY Q-BRANCH WORKING SONG**

An energetic tune starts up. Minions whistling cheerily in the background.

Q:   We’ve got new experiments worth trying,  
    We all labor and slave the day away,  
    Personalized Walthers, gadget building   
    Is that the DB5 in the shop bay?  
    I did say to bring it back in one piece,  
    Not bring back one piece!

Q shakes his head. Humourless, pretentious agents. Back at his desk, which is front and center in Q-Branch, Q claps his hands together and then casually unwraps his lunch. Only an idiot doesn’t take advantage of hypocritical administrative privileges, after all. He doesn’t see Bond quietly enter Q-Branch and immediately zone in on Q’s sandwich as the nearest easy-to-steal edible.

Q:   No, no, no.  This just won’t do.  
    Come on, minions, get it right,  
    We’ve got a lot of work to do  
    Mending, welding, and repairing!

“Yes, sir!” the minions chorus, knowing full well the price of disobedience is porn viruses and the unveiling of humiliating teenage secrets. They’re speeding up now, the previous gloom and lethargy shaken off for the lightning-fast pace customary for Q-Branch. 

As the minions sing, the clatter of keys and the hum of engines is a constant background ensemble. The occasional  _ BANG!  _ in the far off distance keeps things fresh. 

Minions:      Come along, come along, where’s the briefing?  
Harper:     Fill the cups with tea!  
Ria:        We’ve got a lot to do!  
Josh:      003 to Dubai--  
Ivan:      006 to Russia--  
Anne:       001 to Cuba!  
Minions:      We can check off the list and get going!

Ria whirls around and shoots a rubber band at her neighbor. “Major mafia family in Honduras - ” 

“I’ve got you!” Josh assures and kicks Caleb, intel expert in the house, in the ankle. “Hey, you heard the lady!”

“Firewalls! Who invented firewalls?” Ivan laments, groaning and leaning back precariously in his chair, two wheels off the ground. 

Anne shoves him as she struts past and lets gravity do the rest of the work. “Danielle! Come help this idiot over here!”

Q and Minions:    No, no, no.  This just won’t do.  
          Come on, minions, get it right,  
          We’ve got a lot of work to do  
          Mending, welding, and repairing!

Q abandons his half-eaten sandwich and meanders here and there, offering advice and criticism as he sees fit. He still doesn’t appear to see Bond, who is using all his Super Secret Agent skills to stalk the sandwich. He missed his own lunch, and Q’s would do nicely. He tiptoes behind computer banks.

Q:    Minion One, Minion Two, and all the rest   
     Ahead of the game and we won’t be conned  
     As we keep our nose to the grind and -  
  


Q spins on his heel and points an accusing finger at 007, who now has his hands wrapped around...

Q:    YOU PUT MY SANDWICH DOWN! THAT’S MY LUNCH, BOND!

“NEVER!” Bond shouts back and runs out of the room with the kidnapped sandwich in his terrible, gun-oil-dirty hands, Q hot on his heels. 

There’s a brief lull as the minions blink at each other. Beaming, Lauren adds a point to the “Q <3 BOND 4EVA” scoreboard. 

“They’re totally a thing,” Ria whispers. 

Caleb nods. “No disagreements here.”  

“I’m going to win that bet, you just watch.” Anne cackles evilly, probably already imagining the piles of money in which she’ll roll about. 

“Like hell you will!” Ria shoots back, cracking her knuckles.

“We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we? Now. Ready?” Anne takes a deep breath and counts off. “One, two, three - ”

Minions:    We’ve got a lot of work to do  
         No matter who our boss is shagging!

The minions sing to the skies at the top of their lungs and return back to their government-mandated jobs of trying to save the Queen. 

And the world.  

**M: “How utterly ridiculous. This betting pool expired months ago and none of these morons even know it.”**


	5. Scene Five: In One Piece

##  _ Scene Five: In One Piece _

“You must be joking,” Q says flatly between bites of his Californian Club sandwich. Even the comfort of his plush swivel chair doesn’t seem to be appeasing him. 

“Why, because I’ve already completed my allotted amount of insubordinate destruction for the year?” Bond shoots back. He thanks the soundproof walls of Q’s office for the nth time, because the dark look on Q’s face suggests an argument and the minions don’t need any more ammunition against them.

“You’ve already caused enough wanton destruction for the next ten years.” Q shakes his head, his exasperation that of one who’s far too used to doing damage control, paperwork, and answering to Mallory when Bond inevitably goes off-script. “Now, you want to go to  _ Rome _ .”

Bond is somewhat offended. “What’s wrong with Rome? I like Rome.”

“The Colosseum is gorgeous,” Q agrees absently before remembering himself. “There’s nothing wrong with Rome - other than the fact that the local authorities hate you with a passion and you’ve probably made an enemy of one Roman God if not the entire Pantheon - the problem’s with  _ you _ .”

Scratch somewhat offended; Bond is definitely offended. “I imagine Mars and Eris would like me at least. And I assure you, those were all misunderstandings. I didn’t even seduce any wives. Besides, I thought you  _ liked _ me, Q.” 

“Where on Earth did you get that impression?” Q asks, arching an eyebrow. “I think we’ve had a misunderstanding of our own, 007. What is it with you and poor communication?”

“It’s not exactly a skill they teach us during basic training. I clearly remember far more on how to lie efficiently and the best ways to torture information out of marks. There was also something in there about avoiding shark-infested waters now that I think about it…” 

“Don’t strain yourself. It must have been a long time ago for you,” Q quips dryly, polishing off his sandwich. “Maybe a course on communicating with sharks would have been more practical, though. At least those skills would be transferable to humans.”

“I’ll drop a line to the baby agent teachers. I’m sure they’ll greatly appreciate your input.” Bond waits patiently for Q to realise that there’s no tea in his office, whereupon he’s treated to a fierce scowl. “I can call the tea minion,” he coaxes. 

Q jabs a finger at him rudely. “I will not be bribed.” 

Bond fiddles with a watch that he lifted from the prototype desk - AKA the graveyard of boffin hopes and dreams - and doesn’t say a word. 

Q looks around at his tea-less office and sulks for a moment. “Put that down, you’ll bring about Silva VS MI6 Take Two,” he orders and then pouts, giving in to the inevitable. “And while you’re at it, call the tea minion.”

Bond smirks and saunters to the door, placing the watch down on the nearest table. He pokes his head out and hollers for tea. Behind him, Q half-rises out of his chair to snatch up the watch and checks it over, grumbling about agents who have butter fingers and an inability to appreciate fine tech.

“Your tea, my lovely Quartermaster.” Bond bows with a flourish and places the teapot in front of Q with a truly unnecessary amount of charm. 

Q debates flinging the hot water at his face. Sadly, he suspects he would miss that face and most certainly those lips, and so has to concede that doing so would probably not be in his best interest. “This changes nothing,” he tells Bond, carefully setting the watch down.

“Of course not.” Bond smirks, gorgeous and arrogant with it. 

Some days, Q wishes he wasn’t attracted to infuriating, cocky bastards, and today is one of them. He mollifies himself with excellent tea. “You do realise M has grounded you,” he starts again, more calmly, after downing his cup while Bond stares at him unsettlingly. 

####  **TREASON**

A military beat starts playing from somewhere. It’s a sharp tempo.

Bond (softly):  Not the M I answer to.

Bond refills his teacup.

Q (warningly):  Treason.

Would it be so hard for Bond to stay with the band for once rather than marching to the beat of his own drum? Probably. The sound of drums gets louder.

Bond (unfazed):   Not the M I answer to.

Q:        Treason 

Bond:       I’m a Double-Oh.   
        I don’t care.

Q rolls his eyes.

Q (peeved):   Obviously.  
        Treason

Bond smirks in challenge.

Bond:       Throw me in jail.   
        I would just break out.   
        I’ll send you postcards from Rome, no doubt.

Q (deadpan):     Please don’t.   
        Still treason.

Bond narrows his eyes contemplatively. He’s not above bribery. 

Q stares at him over his tea, the steam clouding his glasses. 

Bond:        What’s it worth to you?   
        Our mortgage?   
        Your devil cats?

Q scoffs and turns away. As if they aren’t Bond’s cats, too. He hums thoughtfully, staring at the blank wall as if it knows all the secrets in the world. He smiles, and Bond is promptly wary. 

Q (firmly):     I want desserts.

Bond sighs.

Bond:       Done.

Q:       And a good winter coat.

Bond:       Fine.

Q:       You’ll bring all my tech back to me,  
        safe and sound.

Bond:       They aren’t actually alive.

Q slams his hand on his desk. 

Q:       How dare you;   
        they’re my babies!   
        Treason!

Bond:       Prove it.   
        You’re not the M I answer to.

Q:       No, just your Quartermaster!

The drums halt and Q’s hand darts out to grab the watch that suddenly appeared in Bond’s hands without him noticing. Blasted spies. 

Bond’s faster. “You’re so demanding, Quartermaster,” he gripes, slipping the watch onto his wrist. “I make no promises.”

“I’ll send you out into the field with nothing but glow-sticks and fireflies, 007, and that  _ is _ a promise.” Huffing, Q wipes the last of the crumbs from his trousers as he stands up, looking upon Bond with great suspicion. “Tech aside, what, exactly, are you asking me to do?”

Bond smiles. “Give me a gun and a car. And then make me disappear.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence. And then, “Christ, 007, don’t ask so little of me,” Q mocks. “What will I do in my free time if I’m not catering to your every whim and risking my job, my equipment, and my sanity?”

“Good to know you’d miss me if I was sentenced to eternal damnation, Q.” Bond’s smile fades. “Can you do it?”

Q scoffs. “Of course I can. Who do you think you’re talking to? However, I’ll have you know that even I can’t just magic up a car from thin air, and M’s informed me that you’re to be kept on a leash courtesy of a new tracking system. You’ll be on a deadline.”

“Have I mentioned recently that I’m not a dog?” Bond asks, irked and mildly resentful. 

Q blinks, looking a bit thrown off-guard. “...I certainly hope not. I don’t like dogs.” Before Bond can reply to the unexpected sentiment, “Shall we get started? You’re not getting a car by the way.”

Bond’s eye twitches. “And why not?”

“We don’t just have cars for the taking, 007. Beggars can’t be choosers; you’re going on the plane.” Q heads for the door with a snort.

Bond suppresses a growl and a stomp of his foot. “Fine,” he mutters, trailing in Q’s wake like a particularly homicidal goose with imprinting issues on unsuspecting boffins. “What’s this about a new tracking system?”

“Patience,” Q chides, heading straight for a discreet little room not far away. “I’m rather proud of this one, in fact, considering I only got the directive to create it two weeks ago and I didn’t get the order to make it agent-safe until two days ago.”

“That doesn’t sound at all safe,” Bond comments. “How did you get it to pass procedures?”

Q shrugs in a way that isn’t comforting. Bond wonders if he’s going to be patient zero for the zombie apocalypse. 

He trusts Q, he reminds himself. He trusts Q. Right?

Q looks over his shoulder like he can read minds and smirks. The lenses of his glasses flash intimidatingly, and now he’s just missing that lab coat and a graduated cylinder full of suspiciously-bubbling neon green liquid for the mad scientist look.

It’s really rather attractive. Bond curses his competence kink. 

“Something wrong, 007?”

“If you turn me into a monstrosity, I expect you to take your own advice and take responsibility, Q.”

“Noted.” Q sniffs, turning back before he can trip over his own feet in a very not-mad-scientist fashion. He turns the handle of the unremarkable door they’ve finally reached. “Although if this is all you think of me, you can say goodbye to that exploding pen.”

The room Q leads Bond into is white and sterile but for three screens on the far wall and a medical-looking contraption of a chair in the middle of it. A steel cart with further torture devices lingers to its right. 

“That’s low,” Bond objects, surveying the set up and weighing how much he trusts Q. “And don’t act as if you’ve been considering making me one. You won’t. Purely out of spite and vindictiveness.”

“Couldn’t have without losing all respect for myself,” Q agrees, moving towards the cart. “Into the chair if you would, Bond, and roll up your right sleeve.”

Sighing, Bond does as requested. Occasionally, Q delights in being unpredictable and mysterious, so it’s not likely that he’ll get an explanation before the new tracking device is implanted in him. He grouses regardless, “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Mm, no such thing as too much,” Q purrs and turns to fit a metal cuff over Bond’s arm. With heartbreaking brutality and savage schadenfreude, he injects the Smart Blood into Bond’s system and cheerfully details the new and excessive ways in which 007 is now tagged like a dog.

Or a cat.


	6. Scene Six: When in Rome

##  _Scene Six: When in Rome_

The first thing Bond does after landing in Rome is use the credit card he swiped from Q’s treasure-filled drawers to rent the poshest car he can find. He must arrive at Mr Sciarra’s funeral in style, after all.

**M: “Who does he think he’s fooling? He just likes fast things. Fast cars, fast (wo)men, and fast fingers.”**

He drives around Rome for a bit, resenting the gloomy weather. How depressing. It’s like someone died or something. The watch on his wrist - Omega, how terribly predictable - and the earpiece he’s not allowed to touch unless there’s an Emergency irritate him like an itch on the back that he can’t reach no matter how hard he tries.

Patience, it must be said, has never been 007’s strong suit outside of assassinations and the occasional spa; he much prefers setting buildings on fire and killing his targets before they tell him relevant information. He really, really just wants _something_ to explode. That always solves everything.

After finding the poshest hotel he can get on late notice and taking a shower, Bond finally realises that he doesn’t know where the funeral is going to be. Frowning vaguely, he reaches for his phone, where there’s already a text message displayed from an unknown number:

_It’s at the Museum of Roman Civilization, you wanker. Tomorrow, 1500._

Bond smirks. It’s always nice to have such a caring Quartermaster. He shoots back, _Ta. Do you want a souvenir for all your hard work?_

Two minutes later, there’s a gentle buzz. _More tea._

Of course. Bond rolls his eyes and smiles fondly. 

They banter late into the night, and Bond happens to oversleep, dreaming happily of cats and homemade apple pies. When he arrives at the museum the next day, _fashionably_ late, Bond immediately knows that there isn’t a more pretentious place to hold a funeral in all of Rome.

It looks like the fucking elephant graveyard from _The Lion King_.

He waits for most of the funeral proceedings to conclude - he isn’t that callous - before striding up to find the widow. Lucia Sciarra stands in front of the coffin, looking like she’s expecting someone. Bond opens his mouth but she speaks first, cold and stern.

“I am grieving. Give me my solace.”

Bond pauses respectfully a metre away but doesn’t leave. “You know I can’t do that.”

Ms Sciarra tsks sharply and turns to face him. “Well? Who are you?”

“Not whoever you’re thinking of,” he promises, having no idea who she’s thinking of. “The name’s Bond. James Bond.”

“Well, Bond, James Bond, you had better not be propositioning me for sex,” she says, tart voice and slumped shoulders.

In another life, Bond may have considered it, drawn to her grief and her darkness, but in this life, he replies calmly, “No, more’s the pity.” For her, of course. “Actually, I was hoping to ask you for some information.”

The smile that curves Ms Sciarra’s red lips is cool and knowing. “Information, hmm? Information about what?”

...She knows, Bond decides. She definitely knows. May as well come out with it then. “Your husband was involved in an organisation. I was hoping you could tell me about them.” He sends her his most charming smile and discreetly crosses his fingers behind his back.

She arches a perfectly-groomed eyebrow. “If you’re here for the recruitment spiel, then I’m afraid that you’ve come to the wrong person. Awful demand on his time. Always away on ‘business’ and never tickets for two. You’d think he married them, not his wife.”

Okaaaay then. Unhappy widow with previously unhappy marriage and a lot of resentment issues. This is going to be far easier than Bond expected. “So...I take it you’re not on terribly good terms with this organisation?” he inquires, perfectly casual and with non-threatening body language.

“You could say that. It _would_ serve them right for not setting up a retirement fund. Why?” She narrows her eyes. “I may be a dead woman but I’ll have you know that I’m not an easy one.”

“I would never dare to presume,” Bond diverts smoothly, although he had, in fact, presumed. “When will they come for you?”

“Tomorrow morning.” Ms Sciarra’s swallow is hard, her face pale, but she tilts her chin up and doesn’t flinch from her upcoming death. “I know my worth, and I know what I know, and you know what I know. So what will you give me?”

“What do you want?”

Ms Sciarra takes a moment to think about this. “...A drink,” she decides at last, taking a large step forward. There’s a spark in her eyes now, steel in her spine. “It’s my last night; I need to get drunk. So, here’s the deal, Mr Bond: whoever is standing at the end of tonight wins. If you win, I’ll tell you everything you want to know. If _I_ win, you’ll provide me with protection.”

Bond considers it, considers _her_. Then, he smiles, a little bit of the Devil in his eyes. “Deal.”

* * *

 

They find themselves at the Salotto 42. The bar surface is mirrored, reflecting the low lights of the underground room. A man sits at a piano in the corner, playing a song that Bond thinks Q owns on a classical CD.

The bar is filled with locals chattering in Italian, occasionally broken by the sound of clinking glasses and peaceful silence. To his left, a couple is discussing the latest cricket game. To his right, a woman laughs about the fiasco that happened at their second cousin’s wedding last night.

Either he’s mistranslating or the groom ran off with a Russian metalsmith moments before saying “I do.” Apparently, they were childhood friends. Shaking his head to try and throw away the buzz, he throws back his drink and sighs into the burn of the alcohol.

“Can you do another?” Ms Sciarra asks, tilting her highball glass to show him the empty bottom. Her eyes are dilated and glazed, the lines of cold stress and grief having faded away into languid carelessness. Despite this, her smile is fierce, her gaze challenging.

Bond tries not to groan. This is going to be their third Long Island Iced Tea. How the hell is Ms Sciarra still _going_? She’s much tougher than her husband for sure. But hell if he’s going to lose. Setting his shoulders, he nods to the bartender.

Starting to look wild-eyed, their bartender skedaddles away.

“Did you know,” Bond says, carefully articulating his words, “that there are five shots of hard liquor in each Long Island Iced Tea?”

Ms Sciarra twirls her third cocktail umbrella between her fingers. This one is bright red. It reflects beautifully in the mirror. The other two lay broken and dismembered on the bar next to her. “I know,” she says, peering at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “Do you have a point?”

Bond takes a deep breath and picks up his own bright blue umbrella. Tucking it behind his ear, he turns as the bartender slides their drinks in front of them and replies, “No. No, I don’t.”

“Are you sure you’re not quitting on me? Do you yield?”

Bond rests his chin on his palm, his elbow on the counter. “No. Carry on.”

Ms Sciarra huffs and throws back her new glass.

* * *

 

“I haaaaaaate you,” Ms Sciarra drawls as they stumble outside of the bar, the relieved maître d' slamming the door behind them. Bond doesn’t know why he’s so annoyed; he must be at least 120 euros richer than he was yesterday.

A second later, the words penetrate the quiet fog in his brain, and Bond snorts, unimpressed. “I hate me more, so there,” he retorts childishly.

Ms Sciarra spins around to glare at him and then promptly falls over as her knees collapse, her stilettos breaking in the process. Bond lunges forward to try and catch her but misses by a couple of seconds and just _barely_ keeps his balance on the uneven tile of Rome.

Groaning, Ms Sciarra stays on the ground, hand over her eyes. _“Ma vaffanculo,”_ she says, which translates roughly to “fuck me” in Italian. Her stilettos lay awkwardly next to her.

“Didn’t you tell me to do precisely the opposite?” Bond asks and then realises with a spark of delight, “...I win.”

“No,” Ms Sciarra denies flatly.

“I’m still standing,” Bond crows, starting to smirk. “That means I win. And you have to tell me everything you know.”

Ms Sciarra groans louder. “Fuck _you_. Go to the Palazzo Cadenza tonight. Eleven sharp.” She flings her hand out and peers at him, a little resigned and a little distressed and a lot tired. “If you go, you’ll die. Just know that. There’s nothing but death in this organisation.”

“What a coincidence,” Bond replies. “I could say the same about my mine. Here, this will take you to the American Embassy. When you get there, tell them that you’re under Felix’s protection.”

An inconspicuous white Lotus comes to a stop in front of them, thanks to a phone call Bond made while Ms Sciarra was in the restroom twenty minutes ago.

“Who’s Felix?” Ms Sciarra demands, glaring even as Bond leans down to help her up. “And why are you helping me? I lost.”

“Felix is a friend of mine. He’ll take good care of you. And as for the rest…” Bond shrugs and opens the door. “Well, it was never a fair competition, was it.”

“I should slap you for that but I’m trying not to throw up,” Ms Sciarra admits and then collapses into the car which speeds away without a word from the driver.

When she’s out of sight, he straightens and walks away cheerily. Oldest espionage trick in the book: paying off allies. The bartender had switched out the last three Long Island Iced Teas with straight colas at Bond’s covert request.

He grins and prepares to attend a meeting with terrorists.


	7. Scene Seven: Welcome to the Table

##  _ Scene Seven: Welcome to the Table _

Bond arrives at the Palazzo Cadenza at 2328 sharp. He’s hardly going to be on time for a villain meeting when he can’t bother to be on time for a meeting with his own superior.

It’s ridiculously easy to get in. No eye scan or badge scan or even a list of names to be checked. Q, who had seven layers of securities installed at their flat, would be appalled. All Bond does is flash the ring he snagged from Sciarra after parking his rented car in an illegal spot, and the guards smile at him and wave him in. 

Shaking his head inwardly, he walks up to the top floor and stands at the balcony, peering at the grand meeting hall with vague disinterest. Not even a chandelier? So trashy. 

Instead, the large room is dimly lit by candelabras at the base of the tall pillars, casting unflattering shadows on the representatives seated at the overly extravagant conference table. A ring of silent observers hovers nearby, taking refuge in the gloom. 

At the head of the table is a man shrouded almost entirely in the darkness. The head of SPECTRE, probably. MI6 knows nothing about him except that his codename is Number 1. 

Never let it be said that criminal organisations are creative. The usual hierarchy of meetings and criminal organisation indicates that, at the balcony, as far away from Number 1 as he is, Bond is probably surrounded by lowly minions and bookkeepers. 

Ugh. Nerds. 

“Number 12,” says the man to Number 1’s right, Number 2 probably, speaking into a table mic. “We have not received your monthly dues, nor your promised supply of nuclear submarines.” His voice is carefully smooth, neutral, but an immediate tension takes hold of the onlookers. 

Bond eyes the minions in the balcony who are trying to sneak out. Their guilt is written all over their faces. That, along with terror. He braces himself for the melodrama sure to come next; past experiences have taught him that failure in a place like this generally leads to gorey messes. 

Down the table, a man stands up. He’s pale, the expensive suit he’s wearing not tailored nearly enough to distract from the sweat beading on his forehead and the tremor in the hands he holds at his sides. “It’s coming,” he says, a quiver in his voice. “There’s just been a delay - ”

“Details,” Number 1 interrupts coolly, calmly, with a brutal edge to his voice like a dagger in the night, “of your incompetence do not interest me.” He reaches under the table and does something out of sight with a gentle  _ click  _ that is easily audible in the chilled silence of the hall. 

Number 12 loses what little colour he had in his face, his eyes widening. There’s a soft inhale that echoes across the room as the top of the table in front of Number 12 starts  _ sliding _ to the left like horizontal automatic doors in a medium-sized square, just big enough to fit a body in.

What the fuck?

Bond leans forward along with everyone else on the balcony for a good look. Beneath the apparent cover of the solid table is what appears to be the glimmer of slow moving water, made murky by the bad lighting. 

“No,” Number 12 breathes, taking a step back. Bond almost feels sorry for the criminal. “No, please, Sir, I’ll get it to you, I promise, please don’t sentence me to the beast, please - ”

“Someone take out the trash,” Number 2 sighs, sounding bored. 

“No, wait,  _ please  _ \- ”

A shadow stirs behind Number 12’s chair, and before he can finish begging, a hulking man steps forward and promptly kicks him into the water. Number 12 goes, screaming, and the tabletop closes behind him but not before Bond catches a glimpse of something eel-like lunging for its prey. 

Adjusting his suit, the newcomer sits down at the table and nods respectfully to Number 1 and Number 2. Just an ordinary day at work. 

“Welcome to the table,” Number 2 says with a smile that’s undisturbed by the muffled screams they can still hearing coming from the table. “Number 12.”

...Well. Hell of a way to get a promotion. 

There’s a polite smattering of applause. Next to Bond, a minion looks distinctly green. Poor bugger. One needs a strong stomach to survive in the underworld. 

“Yes, indeed.” Number 1 leans forward, the soft tenor of his voice instantly cutting through the noise. The hall instantly goes ghost silent. He reaches under the table and  _ clicks _ once more, and his chair starts extending upwards with a mechanical whirl. 

When he’s sufficiently high enough, Number 1 casually slips off of his chair and directly onto the table, fine Italian shoes near soundless. Out of nowhere, a bright spotlight appears on him, revealing a horrendous black sequin suit and a top hat. 

Bond dies a little on the inside. 

####  **WELCOME TO THE TABLE**

Number 1 swings a black cane as jazzy cabaret music starts to play.

Number 1:    Welcome to the table one and all,  
          You know where it is,  
          Join us in these festivities,  
          And leave your cares behind.

He struts down the table, and every eye follows him. He points at different henchmen with his cane in turn, each shouting out as the spotlight swings to them: 

Individual chorus:  Murder, extortion, slave trade and racketeering,  
          That’s where the money lies.  
          There’s even some in laundering!

On that line, money of all different currencies rains down from the ceiling. For a profit-inspired organisation, Bond muses dryly, they’re not very good at keeping it.

All chorus:      To thrive here, you learn to lie!

Number 1 agrees, still walking down the table like it’s his own personal runway. It’s a very long table. 

Number 1:    Welcome to the table, folks,  
          I am your host and your boss.  
          You fear me so join me  
          And leave good deeds aside

Now only a few steps from the end of the table, he pauses to strike a dramatic pose before engaging in a complex bit of choreography that looks like an octopus tap-dancing while the henchmen and women sing.

Chorus:      Murder, extortion, slave trade and racketeering,  
          That’s where the money lies.  
          There’s even some in laundering!  
          To thrive here, you learn to lie.

Number 1:    We only want the wicked,   
          The lost and unfound.  
          Each and every member   
          Is the worst in town!  
          Don’t believe me?

Number 1 twirls on the table. 

Number 1:    Ask them, they can’t lie  
          If they do, I kill them,   
          Easy as pie!

Chorus:      Murder, extortion, slave trade and racketeering,  
          That’s where the money lies.  
          There’s even some in laundering!  
          To thrive here, you learn to lie.

Number 1:    Because that’s what we do here  
          Kill to survive.

At the end of the runway, Number 1 pauses and turns on his heel, turning into the light for the first time to reveal a familiar face. A dead face. Franz Oberhauser makes direct eye contact with 007, the smirk that stretches across his lips demented and sadistic.

Shit, Bond thinks numbly. 

Franz:        Welcome to the table, James Bond.  
          It’ll be a murderous ride!

Abruptly, every head in the room swivels to look at Bond. The guards in black reach for their handguns, the terrorists around him draw back in a wave, aaaand it’s time to go, 007 decides quickly. 

Breaking into a sprint, Bond searches for the nearest exit. There’s a window right in front of him...and, well, might as well, right? Barely sparing a thought for the scolding he’s likely to get as soon as Q learns about this newest stunt, 007 jumps right out the window. 

_ CRASH!  _

It’s a daring move his joints aren’t completely in support of when he recalls that he was on the second floor. Cursing the air blue, Bond somehow manages to land with a roll on the pavement, groaning as his knees ache. 

He searches for his rental car as soon as he recovers, but the parking space he left it in is curiously empty. 

“That’s what you get for parking in disabled spaces!” someone yells behind him. “You get towed!”

Bloody hell.

Bond races down the parking lot and finds himself in front of a Vespa scooter. Blindingly red with a keychain of a gondola hanging from the ignition. Well, fuck. He hates it, but it’ll have to do. 

He leap-frogs onto the scooter and turns the key. It jerks away from rest in a way that tells Bond this particular ride has been fancied up a bit. A faint grin spreads across his face despite the circumstance. Perhaps someone beyond the grave is lending a hand. 

**M: “Arrogant snob.”**

As he speeds away, he hears the sound of a real getaway vehicle. 

The chase has begun. 

Competitive streak rapidly kicking in, Bond speeds up. He may only be on a scooter, but he bloody well knows how to make any vehicle perform miracles. 

Bond glances over his shoulder as he rounds a corner and sees a sleek Jaguar on the prowl.  The new Number 12 is behind the wheel. Opportunistic bastard, this one. His black, beady eyes glare gruesome murder at him before a building blocks Bond's line of sight. 

This will be a game of cat and mouse, and it’s one he’s played many times before. 

Bond zips down a side street, not really knowing where he’s going but hoping it’s not a dead end. He shoots a quick glance behind him and smirks when he notices the Jaguar wasn’t able to follow in the narrower street. 

...Or not. Shit, spoke too soon. 

The missing car growls at him at the other end of the side street, apparently having taken a circuitous route on the main road to cut him off. Grunting, Bond yanks the handlebars and veers off the road entirely to tear down a side alley and through a clothesline, scattering laundry all over the ground. 

He runs over a silk nightgown and winces. 

Still, the growl of that sexy, sexy engine follows him, and he’s quickly losing ground. Turning sharply to his right, Bond finds himself riding alongside the Tiber and startling some teenagers snogging in the shrubbery. 

Hmm…

Felix’s name  _ is _ well known around these areas. 

Reckless course of action decided, he drives down the stairs and onto the walkways right next to the Tiber, ignoring the juddering that rattles his teeth. It only takes a moment of scanning the waters before he finds what he needs. 

There. One stroke of good luck, timing, and shark fin are all he needs. 

In a twist of irony, Bond drives the Vespa straight into the water. 

**M: “Here’s where you’re supposed to gasp in shock and surprise. Oh, do be quiet, don’t let it go to his head.”**

The shock of the water startles him briefly, even though he was expecting it. Even as he holds his breath, he watches his poor red vespa slip into the depths never to be seen again. The shark he spotted is hovering a few metres away from him, a looming predator in dark waters. 

Muffled as it is, the grumbling purr of the Jaguar is still loud enough that Bond hears it when it approaches. The headlights illuminate the river momentarily, silhouetting Number 12 as he gets out and peers at the river. 

Idiot.  

Knowing it will cost him precious air in his lungs but willing to take the risk, Bond taps his shark on the nose. When he’s sure he has its attention, he points to Number 12 and speaks one word: “Felix.”

The Tiber Shark swims away immediately; his favourite prey is near.

That does come in handy sometimes, Bond thinks with satisfaction and no repentance. He swims beneath the shadow of the bridge and surfaces. A scream behind him notifies him that being eaten by a shark isn’t the best of experiences. 

Good to know. 

Humming the  _ Jaws  _ theme to himself, Bond walks back to his hotel room. A new change of clothes is in order. And then a ski trip...er, hunt for an ally or an enemy. 

_ 007: Franz Oberhauser. Look him up for me.  _

_ Q: Dead. All records confirm it.  _

_ 007: Dig deeper.  _


	8. Scene Eight: Should Bakes No Bread

##  _ Scene Eight: Should Bakes No Bread  _

**M: “Bond’s efforts to find information from our old friend, Mr White, ended with a corpse, a name, and a photograph. Which leads us now to the smart little snow bunny on the hill. Bond always did like a good chase. Let’s see if he can handle this one.”**

“You,” Madeleine Swann says as soon as she catches sight of Bond, eyes narrowed and mouth pursed.

Bond pauses in the midst of seating himself across from his brand new shrink. If only Psych could see him now. They’d laugh until they cried and then they’d really insist on psychological intervention. “Me..?”

“You!” Dr Swann points a stern finger at him, standing up abruptly. “I knew you would come for me!”

This is new. Bond wonders who blabbed. “Did you now.”

“Don’t play innocent,” Dr Swann says, sharp. “You’re here to take advantage of me.”

Well. She’s not entirely wrong. “Dr Swann, I would never. Do I look like the kind of man to take advantage of others?”

“Yes,” comes the reply, as blunt as two rocks battered at sea for eons. “You’re here to take advantage of me after taking advantage of my father! I know how these things work.”

“What things?” Bond asks, honestly baffled. 

Dr Swann taps a well-manicured fingernail on her desk, a shrewd twist to her mouth. “I bet you’re here to ask me for forbidden knowledge,” she announces. “You’ve got that look to you...like an international spy!”

Bond doesn’t know how to react to this. In all his years of spying, no one has actually accused him of being a spy to his face. They’ve declared their suspicions by shooting at him and kidnapping him but an outright accusation has never been attempted. “Dr Swann - ”

“Now you’re going to say something vaguely charming and mostly creepy to try and throw me off the scent! Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that there’s a secret organisation you’re trying to investigate. And without the backing of your superiors!” Dr Swann’s leaning forward now, a mildly crazed glint in her eyes. 

Where is she getting all of this from? Bond suddenly finds himself doubting Mr White’s assertions that his daughter has kept herself firmly from SPECTRE’s grasp. Maybe she’s one of them now. Maybe she’s a spy herself.

“In fact, I think there’s a secret mission here! Yes, a secret mission...given to you by a former boss. Is he dead now? Missing? This must be his last request, hmm? Oooh, maybe it’s a woman. Now that would be a true plot twist. So few organisations have female leaders, which is awfully sexist and short-sighted of them in my opinion.” Dr Swann nods to herself. 

Bond discreetly goes for his gun. 

“Well, whatever.” She waves her hand carelessly, seemingly batting away her previous theories like annoying cigarette smoke. “The point is, are you a secret international spy sent here to take advantage of me after taking advantage of my father to complete a secret mission that your late boss assigned to you without the backing of your actual organisation because you went rogue?”

“Yes,” Bond says suicidally, Walther firmly in hand. 

“How dare you,” Dr Swann says, indignant. “I will not be taken advantage of. Others may be more gullible, but don’t think I’ll fall for this conspiracy. Get out of my office at once before I call security.”

“I need a drink,” Bond comments to thin air as he wanders out in a daze. “All the women in my life are insane.”

“I heard that!” Dr Swann calls after him. “And I am most certainly not in your life! If you know what’s good for you, you’ll never involve me in your life again! Or it’ll end in a bizarre car and airplane crash, and someone’s going to get kidnapped!”

“Who?” Bond demands over his shoulder, already envisioning vast amounts of alcohol and maybe a nice shoot-out somewhere away from drunk widows and conspiracy theorist shrinks. 

“Me! Oh, and by the way, someone named Q wants you to know that someone named Ms Sciarra’s arrived safely in America. Probably yet another poor woman you tried to drag into this mess through a poorly executed seduction.” The last part a disgruntled mumble, she slams the door. 

Bond thinks on this for a moment, frozen on the stairs, before looking at the ceiling in search of strength. “I am going to  _ kill _ him,” he mutters and continues on down to the bar. “Vodka martini, shaken not stirred.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t believe in encouraging suicidal tendencies here.” The bartender smiles at him with an obnoxiously positive grin. 

Bond’s eye twitches. “It’s not like I asked for a goddamn cyanide pill.”

“No, but he’ll have the proteolytic digestive enzyme shake anyway, ta,” a very familiar and utterly unwelcome voice butts in rudely. “I do appreciate you keeping an eye on my... _ friend _ for me. You have my gratitude.” Several bills are slid across the countertop.

They’re smoothly snatched up and tucked into a pocket. “My pleasure.” The bartender nods, pleasant smile never fading, and glides away, presumably to get started on a disgustingly green and bubbly abomination never meant to be digested.

Bond stares. “Did you  _ bribe _ the service to refuse me alcohol?”

Q slings his bag onto the counter and plops into the seat next to him, wearing the most hideous turtleneck known to man. “What? No, of course not. Hardly polite or professional, you understand, I would never do such a thing.” He smiles. Cheerfully.

Bond doesn’t believe him for a second. “Mm-hm,” he says dubiously. “I suppose you’re well known for being polite and professional then.”

The glare Q flicks at him from beneath his eyelashes is gravely offended. “James Bond,” he sniffs, nose up in the air, poshness firmly in place, “are you trying to insinuate something here about the way I do my job?”

“Of  _ course _ not.”

“That so?”

“Yes. It’s not as if you’ve ever strong-armed agents into acting as test subjects - against MI6 regulations, I might add - or dangled exquisite, expensive equipment as bait purely for your entertainment and bags of exotic tea.”

“Never ever,” Q says with a smug smile. “I’m so glad we could come to an agreement, Bond. What was it that your therapist said? ‘Communication is key to a good professional relationship’? I see you’ve taken his words to heart.”

“Talking of therapists.” Bond frowns in a mildly curious fashion. “The strangest thing happened today, Q. I wonder if you can shed some light on it.”

“Go right ahead, I’ll do my best.”

“You see, when I arrived at this beautiful and very pretentious establishment, I was under the impression that I would be approaching a potential ally, one with important information but no involvement with MI6 in any way. Imagine my surprise when it turned out she knew practically everything there was to know about me.”

“That sounds a bit drastic,” Q protests. “Are you sure you’re not being a drama queen again?”

Bond’s jaw dropped in complete and utter vexation. “ _ Excuse me _ . I am not and have never been a drama queen.”

Q gives him a pitying look, but before he has time to say anything, there’s the sudden whoosh of a door being yanked open at unadvised speeds. 

Dr Swann calls down the stairs, “That would be a falsehood brought upon by delusional self-image. Don’t worry, it’s just a coping method. He’ll come to terms with his tendency to use humor and drama as a self-protective mechanism against his unadvised career one day. Carry on!” She slams the door again, but not before two shadows manage to slip inside.   

There’s a long moment of silence. If someone was paying attention, they might have noticed Dr Swann scowling and shouting at two henchmen in the background - something about having enough intruders in her office, doesn’t anyone have any manners - but no one is.

“So. I see you’ve finally met a psychologist who doesn’t put up with your shit. My sincerest congratulations, 007, the Psych Branch will be thrilled. Quite possibly they’ll throw a large party and end up drinking themselves into a stupor again, in which case, Medical will be stroppy, but we can’t have all the good things in life,” Q says conversationally.

Bond groans. “Why are you here, Q?”

(A henchman gets thrown into a table behind them. No one so much as glances up. The walls here are really quite soundproof. Something about expensive clients and client confidentiality.)

“Oh, I just fancied a break to be honest.” Q shrugs. “And what vacation spot could be better than this? Frigid temperatures, no sun, metres more snow than suggested or needed, terrifying cliffs so I can break my neck, freezing rivers so I can get hypothermia, the constant threat of danger looming over me like a sword of Damocles, and ridiculously expensive clinics with ridiculously expensive therapists to boot. The list just goes on and on.”

Q, Bond thinks, has a habit of rambling when he’s nervous. It’s a good thing Bond has a terrible soft spot for Q’s voice, else he’d have resorted to jumping out of the window by now. 

(Behind him and above his head, Henchmen Two has, in fact, been kicked into a window and almost out of it, but Bond doesn’t notice.)

“You never take vacations,” he points out instead. “You have 16-hour work days, take your work home with you on the weekends, and don’t take sick days even when Medical’s willing to start sedating you with the good stuff.”

“Yes, well, I suppose I’ve been a tad stressed at work lately. What with C’s people crawling all over us and the fact that M wants my balls for Christmas decorations. I don’t even celebrate Christmas, Bond, why do I have to part with my testes for a holiday I don’t care a whit about? It’s all your fault, so you should donate your balls for the cause, really! It’s for the greater good,” Q says, volume steadily rising until he’s in near hysterics by the end. 

(In the vague distance - a floor above them, easily visible through the ginormous windows, with only a much-abused door between them - Dr Swann screams at her would-be kidnappers about not getting paid enough for this, which is clearly a lie. Henchman One quickly educates her on this by screaming back his own salary and then tackling her with a roar of envy.) 

Bond grimaces. If he lets Q go on any longer, things will start mysteriously exploding. The last time Q was speaking this fast, it was after three days straight of all-nighters and a new hole in the lovely country of France. 

Wrapping a hand around Q’s wrist beneath the table, he rubs small circles with his thumb, a tried-and-true method of soothing Quartermasters. Making a sympathetic noise, he says, “You would miss my balls if I gave them away, Q.”

“I would not. Come on, Bond. For Queen and Country,” Q tries, but the gentle fall of his too-tense shoulders is noticeable. 

Bond tries not to look too smug. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not sure what the Queen would do with my balls anyway.”

“Do keep up, Bond, they’re for Christmas decorations.”

(Another lamp is sacrificed in the fight for survival. The desk is promptly overturned when they both crash into it, grappling for superiority. A tablet shatters on the ground. Papers go flying everywhere. For a second, Dr Swann worries that she’s broken her employee contract.)

“She’s the  _ Queen _ , I’m sure she can find better balls than mine for bloody Christmas decorations.”

Q narrows his eyes, cunning and calculation rapidly replacing the somewhat mad look previously on his face. Good. He’s significantly calmed down. “I’ll just have to ask 004 then.”

Not good. This is not good. 004 is a lovely woman, beauty and grace and an absolute joy at wild parties, but she’s deadly with knives of any sort and known to do unsavory things to men who aggravate her. “Ask 004 what?”

(Dr Swann lets out a battle cry and goes for the jugular with her ballpoint pen. It’s close enough that 004 would have approved.)

“To castrate you and gift me with your balls. I’m sure M would find that a suitable replacement.”

“Let’s not,” Bond suggests, eyeing his very slight, very terrifying partner with some hesitance. He doesn’t doubt that 004 would try and do it, too, at an offhand request from Q. All the Double-Ohs but 002 and 008 adore him, but then, 002 and 008 are irredeemable, incompetent bastards anyway. “In fact, why don’t you get to the point, Q, before that atrocious drink you ordered can arrive and swallow me whole.”

“You know, I think it’s supposed to be the other way around.”

“As my grandmother used to say, ‘should’ cooks no bread.”

Q squints at him. “007, your grandparents were dead by the time you were born. Did you hit your head somewhere?”

(Henchman Two helpfully hits his head on the wall. Again. It’s becoming a habit. Dr Swann yells that while habits may be difficult to break, the rewards for doing so are great and would he like some therapy because she thinks he really needs some. She also accidentally knocks over her pet aloe vera in the process.)

“It’s a phrase,” Bond informs him loftily. “And you’re still not getting to the point. I would like the point now, if you would. Before you die of old age.”

“You mean before  _ you _ die of old age.”

“ _ Q _ .”

“Fine.” Q sighs as if Bond is being very trying. “The  _ point _ , 007, is that I’m going to sacrifice your balls instead of mine in order to placate the High God that is M.”

There’s a beat while Bond stares at him and seriously contemplates making a run for it. Unbeknownst to him, Henchmen One and Two would have done so ten minutes ago were it not for their evil master’s implacable and inescapable wrath. 

“I’m joking,” Q says with a straight face. “You really must stop being so serious all the time. You’re going to get wrinkles and then where will we be?”

“I don’t need that from you, Q.”

“Shut up.” Q smiles blithely at the bartender, who’s been waiting patiently for them to stop bickering for the past five minutes. “Thank you.”  

“Your shake, sir.” Smiling back with the adoration of someone who’s met a kindred soul, the bartender places a murky glass of something that looks like it belongs in the sewers on the counter between them. 

Obviously having given into his cleverly-hidden insanity, Q takes a big gulp of it and then nods as if it’s anywhere near edible. “Ernst Stavro Blofeld. That’s what I’m here for.”

Bond’s light mood sours instantaneously. No doubt Blofeld would claim it a talent. “Aren’t we all.”

(Although it valiantly tried to hang on, Dr Swann’s hair gives up the battle at last and unravels from its professional bun of doom. Gulping, Henchman Two gives into the inevitable and throws himself out the window. He’d be dead either way, but at least a haughty feline isn’t here to judge his death.)

Q rolls his eyes. “I dug deeper, 007, and the results are the same. He’s gone and no amount of sulking will change that. He’s dead, dead and buried, and unless you come back with me right now, my career and Moneypenny’s will go the exact same way. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Bond more or less grunts. 

“Do you? Do you really? All hell is breaking loose out there, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t hold with those who favour ice. He died in an avalanche with his father twenty years ago, you know that.”

“I saw him,” Bond insists, grip tightening on Q’s wrist. “I saw him with my own two eyes, alive and very much not dead, ta. He’s not someone I’ll ever forget.”

Q rubs at his temple with his free hand, scowling. “Do you have a lead at least?”

“I have a name. Does that count?”

“No. But tell me anyway.”

“L’Bohemian. Tell me what it means.”

“Sure. Right,” Q says. “Right, that’s easy. Helpful. Really narrows it down a lot.”

“Q,” Bond says, soft. “Q, please. I don’t want to fight you on this.” And then, because the turmoil on Q’s face is frustrated and upset in turns, “Do it for the shake.”

The small joke successfully lightens the mood. Huffing, Q glowers at him and dumps the entire thing down his throat. It’s a miracle it doesn’t come right back up again. “For the shake?  _ For the shake, 007?  _ Oh yes, definitely for the shake.”

Slamming the glass on the counter, he demands, “In fact, I expect one hundred shakes in repayment for my help on this insane quest to kill your already dead brother. And then another one hundred for increasing the chances of my balls being forcibly removed.”

(With the power of badly feigned angst and desperate survival instincts, with tears of effort, sweat pouring down his forehead, Henchman One succeeds in dragging Dr Swann out of her office and down into a secret passageway, previously unknown to everyone but the script writers.)

“And Q? One other thing.” 

“ _ Bond.  _ You shameless wanker.”

Not denying it, Bond gives Q the Puppy Eyes™. It’s not his best attempt, but it doesn’t - never does - take much for Q to sigh and give in with a slump of his shoulders. 

“Fine. What else?”

Removing his hand from Q, Bond reaches into a pocket and drops a ring into Q’s open palm. Q assesses it and raises his eyebrows at Bond. “Is this a proposal? I think I deserve the One Ring at least.”

Bond huffs but smiles despite himself. “As if I would propose to you like this. They taught us better. Roses, candles, the whole shebang. No, see what you can learn from this.”

“From a ring?” Q’s eyebrows go even higher. “Do you think I have a ring scanner or something? What do you expect me to find? Everyone who has ever worn it?”

Bond is conspicuously silent.

“I really, really hate you right now,” Q sighs in that familiar, sweet way. 

Bond knows better than to take it personally. “Thank you, Q.”

Q just shakes his head. He tucks the ring in a pocket of his bag and says, “I’ll see what I can do.” Grabbing his bag, he walks to the front door of the clinic, clearly done with Bond’s bullshit and his rude manners regarding the shake. 

“Where are you staying?” Bond calls after him, not even trying to keep the innuendo from his voice.

Q doesn’t look back as he tosses over his shoulder, “Room 12 of the only hotel in this godforsaken corner of hell, AKA The Pevsner. Honestly, it’s too cold to live. I’m going to go visit the Bahamas one of these days.”

“Don’t. The tourism will drive you to terrorism. One hour.”

Bond smiles fondly as Q leaves and finally turns to check on Dr Swann. A double-take suddenly brings the wrecked office into focus. The lamp is a shame; he really liked that lamp. Maybe IKEA has more in stock.

Wait.

“Shit.”


	9. Scene Nine: A Black Diamond in the Rough

##  _ Scene Nine: A Black Diamond in the Rough _

**M: It was all going so well...but then there was this uncultured arsehole.**

In hindsight, Henchman One thinks to himself, a toboggan may not have been the best choice for a quick getaway. He’s not entirely certain how to handle a toboggan in the first place and in the best of conditions, and his lovely, screaming, raging captive isn’t making anything easier. 

“Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, bull’s-pizzle, you stock-fish!” she shrieks at him, wriggling around despite the zipties binding her wrists and ankles. “I am sick when I do look on thee!”

“I don’t even know what that means!” the poor henchman cries back, grabbing the handles and starting to run. He can hear panicked shouts and high-pitched praying coming from behind him as well as smell the scent of ridiculously expensive cologne. 

To be quite honest, Henchman One has had enough for the day. His arm is bleeding from scratches from his captive’s absurdly long and sharp fingernails - it’s almost as if she were prepared for a kidnapping! - and blood is running down his back from the bite mark on his left ear. 

As someone from good ol’ Alabama, he’s used to much warmer temperatures. His toes are fucking freezing, and really, he would give anything for some biscuits and gravy right about now. 

The she-witch sucks in a deep breath and screams at the top of her lungs as they start to gain sufficient momentum and speed, “Thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson obscene greasy tallow-catch!”

Henchman One looks upon the heavy gray clouds with trepidation, the world of blinding white before them with resignation, and squeezes his eyes shut to avoid looking at anything else as he throws himself onto the toboggan with a terrified howl. “Where are you even getting all of this?”

A warm and jolly voice calls out from behind them, “Henry IV! Part one! Act two, scene four, you uneducated scoundrel!”

Henchman One glances away from their intended path for but a second to catch a charming smile and glacier blue eyes. Then, he feels his stomach flop and the ground drop out from beneath him and can only scream in tandem with his captive as they fall from a cliff.

* * *

 

**M: It was all going so well...but then there was this drama student.**

In hindsight, Bond thinks, there were probably more efficient methods of transportation he could have chosen when he first ran out of the clinic, but the skis really caught his eye and they’re just so...stylish. So graceful. His silhouette is so sleek and effortless when he’s skiing. 

It would have been a crime not to take the opportunity. And besides, his trainers always emphasized using all resources available and the importance of heart-shots over headshots because headshots are much too overdone. 

A voice in his head that sounds worryingly like Q in a strop points out that he’s endangering himself, the kidnapper, the kidnappee, the snow, the scraggly shrubbery, and whatever else is unlucky enough to be here because he’s being a cocky poisonous bunch-backed toad.

Christ, the Shakespeare must be contagious. Bond politely tells the Q in his head to shut up and stop scolding him, he hates the scoldings, they don’t turn him on because competence kink isn’t a thing, no, no, of course not. 

The Q in his head gives him that  _ look, _ and wow, can he really recreate that look from memory? Yes, he can. Well, no more time to think on that, not when he’s already thrown himself off the cliff after Dr Swann and Mr Henchman. 

He hovers in mid-air for a moment. Just for a second, he believes he can fly. It’s a familiar delusion. Psych knows and is worried but then, when are they not?

Bond lands on his feet like a cat on a hot tin roof and carries on gleefully gliding down the hill they’re now on, paying no mind to the squeals as the toboggan starts careening down, swerving every which way with no one even remotely in control.  

Oh, and someone’s yelling at him; that’s not new, but the Shakespeare vaguely is. Most of his adversaries aren’t cultured enough to know Shakespeare.  

“There’s no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune!” Dr Swann rails at him from where she’s currently trapped in a runaway toboggan. Her kidnapper seems to be just praying to God now - not the first time Bond’s converted someone; he could make a living as a priest but he’d still go to hell - and their downward slope isn’t going to stop for a while. 

It’s like a rollercoaster, Bond imagines. An unwarranted, unwanted, and entirely unstoppable rollercoaster with no brakes and also no way to steer around undesired objects like pine trees and the occasional boulder.  

“Am I bovvered?”  Bond yells back at Swann. “Is this the bovvered face that sits before thee? Would thou wouldst burst?” 

“Why can’t any of you speak in proper English?” Mr Henchman squawks, clasping his hands together. “Oh God, what did I do to deserve this? Please, give me a sign! Any sign! Save me here, and I’ll become yours forever!”

“You kidnapped me!” Dr Swann protests.

“I saw the Devil myself!” Mr Henchman cries, crossing himself. “I looked the Devil in the face! Forgive me for succumbing! I could not help myself nor my drug addiction! I repent with all my heart; oh Lord, I give up all my sins so give me mercy!”

Dr Swann stares at him like he’s crazy. As if she can talk. She tilts herself away from him as much as she can in her condition and then lets out a yelp when the toboggan veers harshly towards the left. 

“Damn you!” Henchman One spits out automatically when he almost falls off, and then he looks horrified at himself. How unChristian.

Dr Swann scowls. “Methink'st thou art a general offence and every man should beat thee,” she informs him. 

That’s when the gunshots start. 

Bond sighs and starts to ski in artistic evasive maneuvers.

* * *

 

**M: ...And then there was this unarmed idiot.**

In hindsight, Q thinks, he never should have expected any sort of intelligence from the fools around him. It doesn’t ever go well, and you’d imagine that a genius of his caliber would learn, but no. He walks into the ski lift, sits down, and makes awkward, accidental eye contact with a  _ tourist _ . 

Oh no. Fuck. 

A teenage girl in ski wear on the other bench giggles at whatever expression his face is making. The man with the American flag on his hat glares at him. Q glares right back before deciding to ignore him with the haughty dismissiveness of a Lord -  although being the Overlord of the Minions is sometimes more work than the title implies - and removes his laptop from his bag. 

It’s only then that he notices the outline of a gun holster in the man’s jacket, a tell that he normally only spots in his greener agents. 

Q freezes. 

The only thing worse than a tourist…? A thug.

After a moment, he collects himself and sniffs disdainfully. Ignoring the thug altogether, he turns his attention back to his screen. 

Trying to  _ do _ ...anything here, in this crowded space filled with ignorant civilians, can only end in the kind of catastrophe he normally only sees in Bond’s after-mission reports, and there’s really no use getting the local authorities involved at this stage. 

Better to wait until he’s alone before striking. And, wow, that sounds really creepy, which is probably a sure sign that he’s been in the spy game for too long. Q shivers and pretends it was from the cold. 

Petulantly overlooking the thug’s debilitating glare - he’s sure the man’s doing his best - Q slides open an analysis tray and places the ring on it. It’s not a ring scanner, it’s  _ not.  _

Speaking of, he’s still somewhat miffed at Bond. Really, pulling out a ring like that after they’ve been dating for a good year? Is he trying to give Q heart attacks? The absolute gall of that man. 

Q huffs and awakens his laptop with a quick dance of his fingers. Still successfully acting as if the thug doesn’t exist, he runs a quick analysis on the ring and grimaces as a graph appears before him, a faux family tree with too-familiar faces and names that taste like cat litter. 

Bond was right. The software isn’t good enough to find traces of DNA from more than five years ago, and yet, Blofeld’s name still shows up with 97% certainty. What is the world that Q lives in, that dead men find it necessary to taunt him with their continued existence?

Also, Q thinks as he glances back at his laptop, why is it that all of Bond’s supervillains have worn this ring? Each and every one? He can admit that he sees the allure, but for Christ’s sake, there must be more than enough rings to go around. 

Maybe Bond’s just like a black cat - he would get along well with Rosalind, probably get into a competition over whose onyx coat is shinier, the vain little shits - and he invites curses wherever he goes. 

And because that’s just his luck, the ski gondola jerks as they come to a halt right at that second, and the doors open. They’re at their stop. 

Civilians pour out in a steady stream, and this is Q’s chance. He’s all set to take it when the thug stands up and moves to loom in front of him, still smirking like the Joker on a good day. Another thug shows up out of the blue to block the entrance of the gondola.

Well, that’s that then. Q smirks back viciously and snaps his laptop shut. This is his moment. It’s a good thing he’s picked up some tips from his agents, because otherwise, this plan would be insane. Wait, no, this plan is still insane, but he’s been around Double-Ohs too long to care. 

Placing his laptop safely in his bag, he punches the thug in front of him in the jaw while he’s distracted, whips his bag around to whack the thug behind him while  _ he’s _ distracted, and then darts for the inflatable tube he spotted leaning against the far wall.  

Meanwhile, the lift starts moving again. 

By the time he gets to the tube, Thug #1 has recovered enough to lunge at him. Q whacks him with his very heavy bag again and runs for the exit. Thug #2 is waiting for him with narrowed eyes and a boxing stance. 

Q considers his options.

And then he yelps and points at Thug #2’s feet. “Ahhh! There’s a spider!”

Thug #2’s shriek is shrill, like a train coming to an abrupt stop, and he jumps away frantically. Q takes the opportunity to leap off of the ski lift, holding the inflatable tube above his head for some drag, and screams at the top of his lungs, “I blame all of this on you, Double-Oh Seveeeeeeeeeeeeeen!”

* * *

 

Farther up on the slopes, Bond is dodging bullets again and wondering how he always ends up with henchmen who can ski fairly well. Is that a mandatory class at Villainous Academy or something? 

Luckily for everyone, he’s still better. They’re nowhere  _ near _ his level. 

Smirking smugly, Bond jumps over a stump and does the splits in mid-air. Just for good measure, he backflips to dodge two bullets and then bends over backwards to send off several shots that all miss. 

Some metres ahead of him, Dr Swann lets out a screech like an infuriated swan. “I scorn you, scurvy companion!”

“Now is that any way to talk to your savior?” Bond yells back and spins on the spot to avoid another bullet that then embeds itself in a tree trunk. That gives him an idea since they’re approaching a whole grove of trees. 

“Thou sodden-witted lord! Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows!” is Dr Swann’s gracious response to this. 

“Rude,” Bond mutters under his breath and sneakily sticks his left ski pole in between two close by trees as he slips past. He’s good enough to get by with just one. Behind him, he hears a startled scream and sniggers. 

The next second, a bullet misses his face by a centimetre. Bond rolls his eyes and carries on. 

At first, he thinks that it’s the wind. Then, he suspects it’s Dr Swann, but no, she’s settled for growling more  _ King Henry IV _ insults at her hapless kidnapper. Bond furrows his brow. He could swear that someone is screeching, and it’s getting louder and clearer...

“Thou cream faced loon!” 

Bond looks up with a terrible sense of foreboding. 

Q falls out of the sky and just manages to get his - is that a  _ tube _ ? Yes, his fucking inflatable tube underneath him before crash landing on the remaining henchman in pursuit and ending the chase at long last. The poor chap goes down like London bridge. 

_ London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down. London bridge is falling down... _

Bond winces in sympathy, feeling mildly disturbed. Then it hits him. “What the  _ hell _ ?  _ Q?  _ Are you alright?”

Q hisses - hisses! - at him and manages to orient himself on his wildly spinning tube through some odd feline magic. He must be fine then. “Yes, Bond, hello, good to see you, too, I came here specifically to  _ fall out of the sky from an ungodly height _ , ta very much!”

“If I had known it was raining Q’s, I would have ordered some crash pads!” Bond shouts. “Would you please explain why you decided falling out of the sky is a good idea?”

“It wasn’t! It isn’t! Oh my God, this is all your fault! You’ve infected me with your insanity!”

“ _ My _ fault?  _ My  _ insanity?  _ You’re _ the one who - ”

“I’m still here!” Dr Swann screams at them both. “And still kidnapped, if anyone would like to do anything about it!”

“Also, what happened to keeping civilians out of your madness?” Q demands, clinging for his life to his tube. 

Bond spares a flicker of exasperated concern. Did Q not go to the Villainous Academy with the rest of the henchmen? He’s pretty sure they also teach tubing there. He makes a note to touch up on Q’s education once they get back to London. 

“What happened to the Shakespeare?” Bond snaps without looking at Dr Swann. “I liked the Shakespeare! If you ask nicely in Shakespearean language, I might do something!”

“You want Shakespearean language? You want  _ Shakespearean language _ ?” Dr Swann caterwauls back. “I’ll beat thee, but I would infect my hands!”

“Get in line! He’s mine first!” Q bellows over her and then screams as he begins to spin in circles. 

Mr Henchman appears to be praying. “Oh, dear Lord in Heaven, I’m probably saying this wrong but please forgive me, this is my first time, please be gentle with me, prepare me carefully for the ordeals that lie ahead…”

“Are you a virgin?” Bond asks him loudly. 

Q continues to scream as his tube nearly sends him into a tree. Bond hastily nudges it with his remaining ski pole and almost shoves him into a thorny bush. “007, you’re washing the dishes for the next  _ month _ !”

“How is that fair when you don’t even cook?”

“Go see a marriage counselor!” Dr Swann retorts. “I’m not qualified!” Their little domestic seems to be the last straw for her. She kicks her feet against the toboggan like a toddler throwing a tantrum and then finally realises that while her arms may be bound, her legs are not. 

Mr Henchman feels a chill go down his spine. “Merciful God - ”

“Thou art unfit for any place but hell!” Dr Swann informs him and kicks him into the snow. He crashes into a tree, which dumps a truckload of snow on him. 

By the time everyone comes to a stop at the bottom of the cliff, they’re all cold, tired, and ready to murder some more people. Bond shakes out some snow from his collar, looks at the furious psychiatrist and equally outraged Quartermaster, and says with a charming grin, “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

Q groans and punches him in the shoulder. “I’d rather have hot tea, ta.”

“Someone untie me, already,” snaps Dr Swann.

**M: It was all going so well, but everyone I deal with is an incompetent, and I suppose I can’t expect death to change anything.**


	10. Scene Ten: Hotels are Hell

##  _ Scene Ten: Hotels are Hell _

After a soothing hot shower and a quick change of clothing back in his hotel room, Q settles down with his laptop and resumes analyzing the ring, mildly peeved that he was interrupted earlier. 

The results haven’t changed. A dead man is still alive, his stupid partner is still stupidly right, and everything in Bond’s file is still connected in ways that no one has ever suspected. Closing his eyes, Q leans back in his chair and sighs, tired and already aware that this is going to become a clusterfuck he wasn’t expecting two days ago. 

“Fuck,” he mutters succinctly to the ceiling. 

An early retirement is sounding nicer every day.  

Q doesn’t know how long he just sits there bemoaning his life decisions before a sharp knock on the door jolts him out of it. He stands up quickly, wariness drawing his shoulders up tight. It should be Bond - and probably Dr Swann as well - but recent events are feeding his paranoia, which has been a steadily growing monster in his sternum since his MI6 recruitment. 

He glances around and ends up grabbing the Bible that was left on his hotel table. That reminds him; Q shuts the lid of his laptop, knowing that it’ll automatically lock, and then creeps towards the door, Bible ready in hand. 

If there are henchmen waiting for him outside, then God is going to punish them. 

Q reaches the door without incident. Cautiously, he looks through the peephole. 007’s damnably charming grin greets him. 

It takes Q everything he has to not growl, fling open the door, and hit Bond with the Bible anyway. If there’s anyone who needs the Good Lord’s guidance, it’s James bloody Bond. 

He doesn’t do that though. He doesn’t do that, because Q prides himself on being cool and collected under the worst of stresses - always the Double-Oh branch’s fault,  _ always _ \- and trying to hit his agent on the head with a Bible will promptly get him a session with Psych, and he hates Psych, and -

Q takes a deep breath and forces himself to drop the Bible before he dents it with his fingernails somehow. He thinks happy thoughts for a long heartbeat - perfectly working lines of code, a prototype returned flawless and beautiful, his beloved cats cuddled up to him with loud purrs - and manages to open the door with a polite and dry smile. 

“Bond. Dr Swann. Good to see you.” ‘Alive’, he means but has the courtesy not to say it.

“Q,” Bond greets with that infuriatingly calm, respectful voice that never fails to remind Q of their first meeting. He brushes past Q in that familiar way as he walks in, but that leaves Dr Swann and Q staring awkwardly at each other. 

Q scrambles for something to say. He does so hate small talk. It never fails to make him feel like he’s in secondary school again. He should say something that makes it clear he’s a professional. Welcoming. Capable of acting like a normal person.

“Hi,” Q says. 

Dr Swann nods at him, completely regal, and glides on in. That went well. 

Q eyes the wall and debates bashing his head against it. Decides against it, because, really, the only thing he has going for him is his brain. 

A chance glance down presents him with the Bible still lying sadly on the ground. Humph. Where was God when he needed Him then? Religion must only be useful for smacking Double-Ohs on the head, he concludes as he closes the door. 

Feeling decidedly stroppy now, Q scowls and stalks back to his laptop, the only ally he can truly count on at the end of the day. The glare of the screen blinds him for a moment when he opens his beauty back up again. 

Q groans and drags his fingers across his left eye. Christ, he’s so tired. 

“Q?” Bond prompts, gentle but pointed. He stands at parade rest next to the desk, watching him with sharp, bright eyes. 

He’s right. Terrorists don’t wait for exhausted Quartermasters any more than they wait for bloodhound Double-Ohs. Damn. Q raises a hand and runs his fingers through his hair, dragging his composure around him like a cape. Like armour. He can do this. A few hours more. 

Q takes a deep breath. “We need to talk,” he says, bracing himself with his palms on the table. “Alone.”

“She knows,” Bond responds, still eyeing him as if he’s worried that Q will collapse here after coming so far. Q glares back; he’s not a maiden for 007 to coddle, ta very much. He survived the henchmen, didn’t he?

And could the blasted man be any more vague?

“Knows…?” Q repeats, staring intently at 007 in the hopes of somehow understanding what the fuck he’s thinking. He should really develop a device for telepathy. One-way telepathy. Mind-reading! Mind-reading sounds like a great idea. 

Maybe he’ll start a Q-Branch project when he gets back to Q-Branch, if he ever gets back to Q-Branch, of course. Elece would love to work on something like that, he’s sure -  

Bond has an exasperated look on his face. “She  _ knows _ ,” he says with a particular emphasis as if that helps at all. 

Q squints. That helps, it really does. “Knows about...?”

“Him. I know about him, that he’s a spy,” Dr Swann cuts in, biting and impatient. “I know all about spies and lies. There. Can we move on now? I want to actually get somewhere today.”

Q blinks thrice. “You don’t have anywhere to go,” he points out. 

Dr Swann frowns at him. “Have you had coffee today?”

“Q doesn’t have coffee,” Bond says, matter-of-fact, but there’s an air of revelation around him now. “He has tea. Which - Q, have you had your tea yet?”

Q has officially run out of fucks to give. “Does it look like I have?” he snaps. There was only fucking decaf tea in his hotel room when he got back, and he’s not stupid enough to go out looking for trouble while Bond was away. 

Without another word, Bond turns and leaves the room. Q almost doesn’t want to know what he’s up to now. 

Instead of asking and scaring himself with the possible answers, he decides to type on his laptop with unnecessary force. It’s better than making more small talk with Dr Swann, who’s leaning against a wall, at least. 

Bond is back five minutes later with a steaming cup of tea and a fond, knowing look. 

Q huffs at him half-heartedly, already mostly placated. He takes it with a moderately less grumpy “ta.” The smell that wafts up from the mug is one he recognises immediately: his favourite brand of Earl Grey...which is only available at a small tea shop two blocks away from MI6. 

Startled, he glances up at Bond, who meets his gaze steadily. There’s already a small cat-got-the-canary smirk quirking his lips, and Q has to wonder when Bond started randomly carrying around tea bags. He couldn’t have been expecting Q on this mission. Even Q wasn’t expecting Q on this mission. 

Smug bastard. Q hides his smile in the mug. 

It’s perfectly brewed to his taste with a dash of milk and three spoons of sugar. Q drinks half the cup in one gulp, because through some obscure Bond magic, it’s not hot enough to burn his tongue off but still hot enough to warm his stomach, and sets it down with a sigh of relief. 

“Alright,” he says, shoulders relaxing. The warmth and comfort alleviates the chill that lingered in his bones, the caffeine shocking his brain back into some semblance of coherence

A soft beep from his computer grabs his attention. A notification from one of his background scripts has popped up:  _ Big BOOM in Cape Town. Nearest 00 agent last recorded to be 852.5 km away from explosion. _

“Damn,” Q whispers. “Not one of ours.” He looks back at Bond. “The point is, everything is connected. Mr. White, Le Chiffre, Silva; conveniently, every big villain you have faced in your tenure as a Double-Oh agent was a part of large criminal organisation. One that Oberhauser is connected to as well. They’re probably behind this incident too. I owe you an apology for not believing you.”

Bond spoke at the same time. “I owe you an apology…”

“For?” Q asks. He frowns at Bond’s pause.

“For everything.” 

####  **APOLOGIES**

A lone, melancholic piano starts. There’s a candelabra on the lid.

Bond (slowly):  I’m sorry, you’re involved, that you’re all involved.  
        A friend and, a daughter of an old enemy...

Q:       Apologies come too late for you and I.    
        It seems to be, our lives in danger  
        Again. It’s not safe for me, for you, for her.

Bond:       If I could have spared you I would.  
        I had no other choice. I had to seek  
        to find and not to yield.

Q:       Wise words from one we knew  
        They're all connected, one after the other.   
        All this pain, all this grief, they're all connected.   
        We owe each other an apology.

Bond:       My dearest Q, I owe you an apology and chocolate.  
        I’ve brought this on without thinking  
        Betrayed queen and country  
        Our two cats and mortgage

Q:       More like bent the rules.  
        But the DNA is in the ring  
        Around and around it goes  
        Le Chiffre  
        Greene  
        Silva

Bond:       I thought all the ends were tied up  
        At Skyfall…  
        What is this thing?

Q:       What is this thing?

Dr Swann (spoken): SPECTRE...it’s called SPECTRE.

Q:        It should have been over  
        There should have been none of this  
        Done and buried  
        What will you do, where will you go?  
        You have no Skyfall now.

Bond:        It’s time to get ahead  
        We’ll protect our own  
        Go back, Q  
        Get ready.

Q:        Shore up our defenses  
        Find the subversives.  
        And feed the cats  
        It’s what I do.

Dr Swann (descant, on the tonic chord) : SPECTRE

Q blinked. Wait - “Need clarification. What’s SPECTRE?”

Dr Swann looks like she’s ready to explode on them both.  “It’s Quantum, but now with copyright laws, it’s back to its original name! The bad guys want to rule everything. Does it really matter what they’re called?”

Q looks at her, takes a long sip of his tea, and sighs. Life, as the Buddhists would say, is pain. “I suppose not. Anyway, there’s nothing that implicates C, but I suspect he’s a part of SPECTRE as well.”

“Who is C?” Dr Swann asks, significantly calmer than she was before. 

“The new head honcho, the big boss,” says Bond with clear derision.

“And someone who is frankly giving me the willies,” Q adds, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably. “I don’t trust him. He reminds me of one of those monologuing, melodramatic bad guys you see on those BBC mini dramas.”

Bond frowns. “Then perhaps you ought to return to headquarters and keep a closer eye on him, Q. Let us worry about tracking down the Bohemian.”

“It’s not a person,” Dr Swann says. “It’s a hotel. L’Bohemian. My parents would vacation there every year. Stayed in the same room every time. Which, now that I think about it, is very suspicious.”

“That’s significantly easier than trying to track down every person of Bohemian descent,” Q notes. 

“I’m sure,” Dr Swann says dryly. 

“Go home, Q,” Bond insists again. “MI6 needs you. God knows M has been wavering recently. And your branch is probably falling to pieces in your absence. Did you even tell anyone you were going to come to bloody Austria?”

“...No,” Q mutters petulantly. 

Bond nods, unsurprised, before a thought suddenly seems to occur to him and he looks alarmed. “What about the cats? You know Lovelace gets lonely when you’re gone for too long. Then she’ll go and puke in my shoes and laze about on my suits.” 

Q stares back at him. “Shit. You’re right.” He closes his laptop and starts gathering his things. Stuffing everything in his bag, he books a flight with his phone and is almost out the door before it occurs to him that Bond looks sleekly self-satisfied. 

“Don’t think that I don’t know that you’re only doing this because you think it’ll take me out of the line of fire,” Q warns, narrowing his eyes. 

Bond just smiles. “’Course not, Q. Say hi to Turing for me.”


	11. Act II: Scene One: L’Bohemian

#  Act II

##  _ Scene One: L’Bohemian _

_ We open on Bond and Madeleine walking into a hotel decorated in vibrant colors, a gay pride flag hanging beneath the sign declaring it to be L’Bohemian _

Bond and Dr Swann check into the hotel. Or, at least, they attempt to.

“Move.” Dr Swann punches Bond in the kidney and gets barely a grunt out of him. Reverting to Plan B, she drops her bag at his feet and tilts her nose up.  “Carry that.”

“I’m a super secret spy, not a bellhop. Carry your own damn bag.” Unfazed, Bond steps over her heinously overpacked suitcase. How she managed to pack so many things when she was kidnapped from her clinic is beyond him. He saunters up to the woman at the counter and gives her the same overtired, underwhelmingly charming smile. 

She barely looks up from her receipts. “Can I help you?” 

“One room, please. Wherever this hell spawn was formed, that’s where I want to be.” Bond gestures at Dr Swann rudely. She sticks her tongue out in response. He narrows his eyes and contemplates whether he wants to trip her.

Before he can succumb to the urge, the hotel receptionist says, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand English.” In flawless English. 

There’s an awkward pause.

Sniffing, Dr Swann steps up, with the same proud angle to her chin. “I would like the key to the super secret honeymoon suite that my parents always reserved at this establishment. The name is White.” 

The receptionist hardly blinks. It’s kind of creepy actually. “Usted eres una londinense.”

“I, however, do speak languages other than English,” Dr Swann says. “Puta.”

Bond fake-coughs into his elbow to hide the burst of rude laughter. “It sure is dusty in here,” he says when they both stare at him. Neither of them look anywhere near impressed.

“One room. Bring up a cot for him and give him the bill,” Dr Swann says to the receptionist, who, after eyeing Bond weirdly for a moment, nods and silently obeys. Bond feels like he should maybe be insulted. 

For a wanted criminal who associated with more than his fair share of illegal and wealthy terrorist organisations, Mr White’s honeymoon suite is rather pathetic. It calls into question his love for his wife, in Bond’s opinion, because surely he could have done better than  _ this _ .

Dr Swann throws a pillow at him when he chooses to voice this observation out loud. “Are you always so charming when Q’s gone? Shut up and don’t speak ill of the dead.”

“I’m charming all the time. And yes, I’m sure cheap tile, a wonky bed, and a mosquito net with holes in it were considered very romantic back in the day,” Bond says. “Besides, most people I know are dead. If I don’t speak ill of them, who can I complain about?”

####  **COMPLAINING SONG**

An angry, angular melody plays with a quick tempo.

Dr Swann:     What do you have to complain about?  
          Attacked in my office,  
          Dragged through the door  
          Stolen from my clinic,  
          Thrown onto the floor!

Bond (spoken):    You weren’t exactly —

Dr Swann:     They shattered my windows,  
          Shattered my life.  
          They fought to take me,  
          But I did not go down without a fight.

Bond (spoken):    I wouldn’t call yelling insults a fight.

Dr Swann:     I did not go down without a fight!  
          I punched and I kicked  
          And I threw him out the window  
          Flew down the hill, my pursuer in sight  
          Only one of us survived:

Dr Swann (spoken):  Me.

Bond (spoken):    Not like you did much

Dr Swann:     My clinic life is gone,  
          All I worked for destroyed.  
          And still you want to complain?  
          The white male wishes to complain?

“Anyway,” Bond continues. “If Q was here, he would tell us to get down to business and try to find this secret room.” Bond pulls a spy kit from an unknown location. “You ready?”

Dr Swann looks at Bond’s stance, grabs a bottle of champagne from a similarly mysterious place, and sits on the bed. “Whatever.” She yanks the cork out as she watches the agent inspect everything in sight. 

The walls of the hotel room prove remarkably more mysterious than either of them expected. Bond taps on every centimetre, listens with a glass, blows white smoke into every corner… and finds only five more bottles of alcohol. One irritated neighbor in an adjoining room gets fed up with the tap-tapping noise and hammers back with a fist.

“Probably not a secret room,” Bond says, and keeps tapping because he’s just that petty.

“You’re pathetic,” Dr Swann informs him. “I think I bought one of those kits for my coworker’s son’s birthday once.”

Bond ignores her and cracks open a beer. 

Three drinks in, Dr Swann decides she’s sleepy. “I’m going to bed, you big piss monkey. No funny business. Or any kind of businesses. Only sheep counting.” She takes off her shoes, hangs up her jacket, and tries to walk back to the bed. 

Except she trips over air and lands in Bond’s arms. 

She looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “No sexy times for you ever. Cow.”

“Moo siree,” Bond says with a straight face.

“That was awful.”

Bond’s silence is agreement enough. He puts her on the bed and sits on the rough mattress thrown on the floor that is to be his bed for the night. Some notion of chivalry and a lot of agent training tells him he should keep watch. 

Mostly, he just watches the moonlight slide across the walls and thinks longingly of home. Of after dinner drinks on their balcony and good scotch smooth on his tongue.

An indeterminable amount of time later, he’s startled out of his musings by a mouse running across the floorboards. In a show of quick reflexes but maybe not quick wit, he throws his glass. 

It shatters on the floor, and the mouse is startled into scampering away…into a previously unseen hole in the wall. Huh. Okay then.

Bond shrugs and starts kicking the wall down. It seems the only sensible thing to do.

Naturally, the noise disturbs Dr Swann, who throws a shoe in his general direction, eyes still closed. 

_ Click. _

Ah, there. A hidden switch, conveniently hit by Dr Swann’s shoe. Bond resists the urge to strangle something as what remains of the wall slides silently into the floor after a series of cogs have completed what were probably meant to be impressive maneuvers. 

“What are you doing, you wanker?” Dr Swann snarls, sounding like she’d like nothing more than to strangle  _ him. _

“Being a super secret, super subtle, super good squirrel trying to find your father’s nuts,” Bond says, petulant, and steps into the super secret hide-out. It’s filled to the brim with weird knick-knacks, including a safe right smack in the midst of everything, shining silver and clearly expensive. 

By the right wall, there’s a closet. He wanders over and takes a peek. 

An exquisitely tailored white suit and a silver evening gown glare back at him. A note flutters down from the top shelf. Bond grabs it and reads the chicken scribbles:  _ “Sleep with my daughter, you infidel womaniser, and die.” _

...okay then. 

_ “P.S. touch my exclusive, hard-earned, and much-used collection of sex toys hidden in the silver safe in the middle of the room with the combination of 242-132-05122, and die.”  _

“Fuck, I didn’t need to know that.” Bond pales, spinning on his heel to stare warily at the innocent-looking safe. Now he doesn’t want to touch it with a twelve-metre pole, but what if White is lying? What if important information is in there, and this is all a trick to throw him off?

He sweats nervously and loosens his tie. This is worse than facing off against C4 and screeching toddlers. 

Suddenly, he registers the ominous silence coming from behind him. Then, “What the hell are you talking about?” Dr Swann demands flatly. The sheets rustle. 

Bond panics. “Nothing,” he lies, glancing around for any place to hide the note. 

More ominous silence. “Nothing, huh?” More sheets rustle. Footsteps on soft carpet; the hairs on his nape prickle. 

Bond stuffs the note in his mouth and chews like a super secret spy squirrel. 

Desperate times, desperate measures. 

Paper tastes awful. The ink, on the other hand, tastes like shit, and it’s almost as if White knew that someday an infidel womaniser would stuff the note in his mouth to avoid embarrassing himself in front of his daughter and purposefully made sure he used ink that tasted like shit. 

Dr Swann comes into view from his far right. She looks wary. “What even is all this? An episode of house renovation from HGTV? You’re paying the hotel for all of this.”

Bond nods and tries not to throw up. 

“It’s only been seven hours,” she notes, glancing at the sunrise outside. “How did you have time to create this entire mess? Are you going to clean it up? House cleaning definitely isn’t, because let me tell you, those employees work hard and they don’t deserve this sort of crap.”

Bond’s eyebrow twitches. He nods again and tries to chew discreetly. God, swallowing a big old lump of paper is harder than expected, even with all of his experience in swallowing things. 

“You’re being suspiciously quiet,” Dr Swann says, circling around him to give him the full brunt of her best Sherlock Holmes impression. “What have you done? Have you killed someone? Why do you look like Gus?”

Errr. Bond chews faster.

She hesitates. “You do know who Gus is, right?”

Bond’s offended that she doesn’t think he’s perfectly well-versed in all of the Disney movies, especially Cinderella. He found all of the mice in there adorable actually. Nodding pointedly, he focuses on ripping apart the last stubborn vestiges of the note. 

White must have also chosen the toughest paper he could find. Bond hopes spitefully that he’s being punished for it in hell. 

She looks honestly annoyed now. “What  _ are _ you eating? If you don’t spit it out right now, I’ll - ”

Bond swallows. “Dr Swann.”

“What?” she snaps. 

He nods to the mouse scurrying over her foot. “You have a little...something there.”

Dr Swann’s shriek probably wakes the entire hotel. 


	12. Scene Two: Too Much Meta

##  _ Scene Two: Too Much Meta _

Far, far away, on a completely different continent in a very different time, Q slowly backs away from the simmering tension that crackles between his bosses. He’s so not here for this. Wistfully, he thinks of all the champagne he hasn’t drunk yet. A clear mistake he’ll have to rectify soon. 

In the very centre of the MI6 lobby, M and C face off. They’re smiling politely. They’re also very clearly trying to murder each other with lasers from their eyeballs, powered by the sheer force of their complete and utter disdain for the other. 

“Going somewhere, M?” C asks. Politely. C’s lasers intensify.

M, who was heading out to a meeting spot Eve directed him to, shoves his hand in his pocket.  He raises his deflector shields, C’s lasers bouncing impotently off. 

Q knew that Eve writing the address on the back of his hand so he wouldn’t forget the address was too much. He silently curses hindsight and M’s cheese memory.  Maybe C wouldn’t notice if he suddenly licked M’s hand...

“Of course not,” M lies stiffly. “May I ask what you’re doing here, C?”

Somewhere in the distance, thunder booms and lightning splits the sky. C doesn’t seem to be blinking. “Oh, little ol’ me? I’m just here to do some inspection. Make sure everything’s working as it should be.” A creepy arse little bureaucratic smile slides up C’s face.

“Are you implying that I can’t do my job?” M asks, point-blank. The crowd gasps in unison.  The vendors start to set up their popcorn stands.

C pauses. “Of course not,” he lies. Obviously. “But now that you mention it...maybe it is time for MI6 to be disbanded. It’s so...outdated now, isn’t it? So 90s Versace.”

Q gasps loudly in unison with the crowd. 

“Oh no, he didn’t!” Eve mutters under her breath, startling him into jumping a whole foot in the air. 

“Eve!” he hisses. “Where did you come from?” 

Eve, who popped up from nowhere and at the front of the crowd no less, just shrugs and glares death and plague at C. Hmm. Bioweapons. Now that’s a thought. Q tunes out for a while, thinking dreamily of smallpox in sieges and anthrax in envelopes. 

He wakes up to find M bitch slapping C with his marked-up hand. C goes flying. The crowd gasps very loudly. 

“Oh.” Q blinks. “So that happened.” 

A thought suddenly occurs to him, and he frowns. “What about 007?”

“What about him?” Eve asks. She seems to be drinking coffee and examining her flawless nails with a slight frown. Q is well aware that her nail polish is poisonous. She should “accidentally” scratch C one day, assuming he ever recovers from that solid burn. 

Q shrugs awkwardly. “He...probably needs our help? As always? When does he not need our help?”

Eve waves a hand. “I think M has more than enough on his plate right now, don’t you?” She winks and grins, every centimetre the devil’s own queen. “Between the two of us, we can handle James without breaking a sweat.”

Q considers that. “You’re not wrong,” he says. On the ground, cheek already swelling up, C groans. 

“I could use some tea…” he decides. “You, there, get me some tea. I’ve got some hacking to do.”

A minion goes scrambling. Without a backward glance, Q goes back to his branch, thinking of slow-acting poisons and how best to hack Nine-Eyes. Eve is already off, probably to conquer the world. 

“I need some ice cream,” M remarks to thin air and stomps on C once before leaving. 

Tanner, who was hovering in the corner, sighs and starts to arrange clean-up. Honestly, no one around here is the slightest bit sensible. As if they can just leave C lying there! 

“Where should we take him?” an agent asks. 

Tanner thinks about it. “The nearest skip bin will do.”

* * *

 

“You look beautiful in that dress,” Bond comments to his menu. 

“Why, thank you,” Dr Swann remarks to her shining fork. 

There’s a moment of silence. They both ignore the awkward atmosphere. The food here is fantastic enough that they’re both willing to suffer the other’s presence for a solid one hour before reverting back to icy silence with frequent bouts of polite insults and outright aggressive jabbing.

Dr Swann narrows her eyes at her spoon as if she can hear his thoughts, and he rapidly redirects his attention back to the steaks available. “What are you getting?” he asks, because he’s the one paying for all of this.  If he could have his way, all she would get is a crust of bread and a glass of water. MI6 is hardly giving him funds for a rogue mission already kilometres away from the tracks. 

“All the most expensive things,” Dr Swann says flatly. “I expect to be compensated for one too many life-or-death situations.”

“You’ve only had one,” Bond points out. 

“I meant what I said, and I said what I meant.”

“Thank you, Dr Seuss,” Bond mutters as he looks at the three-figure prices and silently mourns for his wallet. And here he was hoping he could buy five more perfectly-tailored Saville Row suits from the middle of nowhere. Although he wouldn’t mind handing the receipts to M.

What a look that would earn him. Bond daydreams for a good five minutes about the small pleasures in life, like trying to give your boss an aneurysm. He snaps back to reality to find that Dr Swann’s already ordered and both she and their waiter are looking at him with cold judgment. 

Bond pastes on a suave smirk and orders a martini. He’s craving alcohol tonight. Feeling a mild twinge of guilt - he promised Q he would try to cut down - he also orders a milkshake. Some sugar will do him good. Right?

“You’re going to get fat,” Dr Swann informs him. 

Bond scoffs. “Who cares about that?” he says while caring very deeply. 

Dr Swann rolls her eyes and mutters something about how not everyone can be an assassin in their day job. Bond is somewhat hurt by this. He goes to the gym, ta very little.

“So,” Bond starts and doesn’t end.

“So…?” Dr Swann raises an eyebrow. 

“So.” Bond smiles at her and waits for her to finish the sentence. 

She stares blankly at him.

Bond sighs. The younger generation, these days. The old art of telepathic communication is completely lost on them. “So, tell me more about SPECTRE.” He makes finger quotes as he sarcastically drawls out the word SPECTRE.

“Oh, that.” She flaps a hand. “Nothing much to tell. They’re super secret squirrels hoarding nuts. Disney movie marathons are on Thursday nights. It’s rumored that a white, fluffy cat ghost haunts the halls, so don’t go into the cat park.”

“They have a cat park?” Bond asks. 

Dr Swann nods. 

Bond moves on, latching onto the most important piece of information in her little speech like the super duper good spy he is. “What movies are in the marathons? Are they playing the live version of Cinderella?”

“Of course.” She seems offended that he would even have to ask. “In fact, if I’m not mistaken, that might be tomorrow night. So…”  

“So, that’s when we’re invading,” Bond concludes reasonably. 

Dr Swann rolls her eyes. “Yes, that’s when we’re invading, Captain Obvious. Have you seen the live version of Beauty and the Beast? Isn’t it pure costume porn?”

Bond makes a vaguely agreeing noise. “But the auto-tune almost ruined it for me.”

“Almost?” Dr Swann leans closer, eyes wide with interest. 

“Almost.”

“ _ Almost?” _

Bond grins. “Emma Watson is the brightest witch of her generation.”

“You’ve watched Harry Potter, haven’t you?” Dr Swann asks suspiciously. 

Bond arches an eyebrow. “Hasn’t everyone?” It’s a requirement for all agents of MI6. M, the old M, knew the most relevant, obscure Harry Potter trivia and had a signed first print, to everyone’s undying envy.  

“You would be surprised.” She sniffs. “I love Emma Watson, but the way they purified Hermione’s character and villainized Ron’s is unbelievable.”

“I agree,” a different voice cuts in. “Not to mention the unforgivable lack of Peeves.”

Bond stiffens and goes for the butter knife. However, the hulking SPECTRE minion from Rome only raises his hands, palms open, in the all-peace gesture. It doesn’t quite carry as far when Bond clearly remembers him kicking the old Number 12 to his death. 

But,“It’s alright,” he says. “I’m only here because I heard Harry Potter, and I love Harry Potter. I mean no harm. My name is Toby Hinx, by the way.”

Bond brandishes his butter knife. “Didn’t you get eaten by a shark in Italy?” he asks. 

Toby waves dismissively. “Just a flesh wound.” 

Bond wavers, butter knife held high in the air, ready for a stab that’ll ruin his milkshake. Dr Swann tsks and shakes her finger at him. “Oh, put it down,” she says before turning a blinding smile on the SPECTRE minion. 

He blushes bright crimson. Bond stares.

“I always have time to talk with another Harry Potter fan,” she says, shifting to the left of the booth. “Please, sit down. I was so angry they didn’t include Peeves. But, oh, Ginny! What they did to Ginny was so disgusting to watch.”

Number 12 actually sits down, already nodding along. “I know. Their relationship was believable in the books, but the movies had horrible relationship progression. And the forced empathy with Snape?”

Dr Swann presses her lips together. “They also took out all the good parts of James Potter,” she notes. “And SPEW? Hermione’s display of kindness, social progressiveness, and interest in government and politics? It’s such an integral part of her character…”

Unnoticed by either of them, Bond puts his knife down. He stares out the window like he’s on The Office. “Why do I feel like I’ve been downgraded to chaperoning two teenagers’ first date?” he asks the audience. 

The audience does not answer.

* * *

 

Bond is at his wit’s end. He’s suffered through two hours of Harry Potter analysis, five hours of Lord of the Rings, and a night of disgusting sappiness. He’s happy for them, he really is, but - 

“No sex on the first date,” Bond decrees, ignoring the way Toby pouts and Dr Swann glares at him. “Besides, I want to get some sleep before crashing Cinderella (2015)...tomorrow night?” 

He glances at his Omega Seamaster watch from Q and scowls darkly. “Or...tonight, as of two hours ago.” 

It’s been a long train ride. 

“Spoilsport,” Toby says, petulant. 

Dr Swann pets him on the arm, lingering for a second too long. “He’s just jealous because his partner is back home and he isn’t getting any,” she reassures him. 

“Ohhhhhhh.” He nods, a lightbulb going off above his head. He smiles. They gaze adoringly into each other’s eyes. 

Ugh.

Rolling his eyes and reminding himself that he’s supposed to be keeping his “homicidal tendencies” under control according to Psych, Bond refrains from knocking them both out and enters his compartment while Toby drags Dr Swann to his, conveniently next door. 

It’s so painfully obvious the minion was sent to kill him. Briefly, Bond contemplates the common sense of leaving Dr Swann, mostly helpless, alone with him, which was honestly the only reason he didn’t leave earlier when they were arguing over Lord of the Rings. 

He shrugs and dismisses it. No one has the devotion to debate for seven hours purely to subdue a target. No one. 

Settling down in bed, Bond stares at the ceiling. All is quiet. 

Then, a loud moan splits the silence, and his eye twitches. 

The walls here are too fucking thin for fucking. 

For the first time in his life, Bond is the third wheel in unnecessary sex. They don’t even have the decency to try and keep it down. He’s reduced to burying his head under his pillow, not that it helps. 

He wonders if this is how Q feels when he has sex for a mission. Hopefully, Q is at least privy to better-sounding sex, as weird as that idea seems. These two even have the nerve to keep up their analysis of pop culture while having sex. 

Bond wishes he had a cyanide pill.


	13. Scene Three: Endless Nights of Sand and a Villainous Lair

##  _ Scene Three: Endless nights of sand and villainous lair. (there’s only one) _

After an endless night, the train leaves them at a concrete slab of a train station in the desert. Toby, however, finally proves he is good for something other than ruining Bond’s sleep, and presses a hidden button that drops the floor down through an elevator shaft and into a clean tunnel below the sand. 

A car is waiting for them, and Toby drives them straight to SPECTRE’s headquarters. Bond stares out the window the entire time and determinedly ignores the teenage giggling and making out up front, incredibly relieved that he chose to sit in the back and let Dr Swann take shotgun. He hopes that they don’t crash and die because this is embarrassing even by his standards. And he knows Q would make sure it was written in his obituary.

Christ, he feels so damn old. 

When they arrive, the secret hideout is weirdly empty. At Bond’s suspicious look, Toby says, “It’s movie night, remember? We’re missing out on Cinderella.” For a second, he looks like a kicked puppy.  

An evil kicked puppy, but a kicked puppy nonetheless. 

Bond sighs. And, well, he really does like the live version of Cinderella. “Go on. Where’s the movie theatre?” 

Toby lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. Dr Swann smiles fondly. Bond tries very hard to not roll his eyes. They wander through empty marble halls, steps echoing in a way that makes 007 cringe. Along the way, Toby points out rooms of interest like a tour guide. 

“That’s the video game room,” he explains as a group of middle-aged men with beards and intense frowns attempt to shoot each other on screen. “That’s the Buzzfeed room...that’s the organ slash church slash redemption room…”

Dr Swann looks contemplative. “Secret villain hideouts,” she sighs. “They’re such cesspools for mental disorders.”

Bond thinks of all the villains he’s encountered in his life and decides not to say anything. She’d probably be far too interested in how often 007 himself ends up in secret villain hideouts for an extended amount of time.

A good twenty minutes later, they finally reach the cinema. Bond has to admit, it’s quite nice. Nicer than expected, actually. Red carpet floors, walls curved for better sound, discreetly positioned doors, and impressive speaker quality. 

It’s even IMAX. On screen, Cinderella, pitiful but beautiful in her tattered pink dress, watches with wide eyes as her quirky godmother gestures gracefully with her wand, white and blue light flowing out of the tip in a gentle stream to surround her. 

“Oh, I love this part!” Dr Swann whispers, smiling faintly and already looking engrossed. 

“Me too,” Toby agrees. “Here, there are open spots in the back.” They grin at each other. 

Bond, meanwhile, is already sitting in the front, legs crossed and eyes fixated firmly on the screen. He ignores the lovebirds trying to discreetly grope each other in the back, far more preoccupied with watching Cinderella’s shoes transforming into glass slippers. 

Just when it gets to the good part, the speakers crackle. An annoyed murmur ripples over the crowd. Bond looks up and frowns, only to get blinded by the lights as they all abruptly turn on at full brightness. 

“How rude!” someone gasps. 

Bond would be inclined to agree with them, but there’s duct tape being slapped over his mouth and handcuffs being forced on his wrists. He’s really rather indignant all the same; he was looking forward to the ballroom dance!

“Hello, James,” a calm voice greets over the speakers. Fuck. It’s been a long time, but he knows that voice, and it’s just as irksome as he remembers. “Your story won’t have a happy ending, I’m afraid.” 

“No, thanks to you,” Bond wants to reply, but a sharp jab at his neck quickly brings along a familiar darkness, and he loses consciousness just as Cinderella bursts into the castle in her resplendent gown. 

Bond wakes up in a horrendously uncomfortable chair. 

“Ah, James. Awake at last, are you? You’re more of a Sleeping Beauty than a Cinderella, don’t you think? Except, of course, you’re hardly beautiful.” Blofeld smiles down at him, for all the world like a Disney villain himself. 

“Fuck you,” Bond replies without hesitation. “I’m gorgeous.”

“And very humble,” comes Dr Swann’s dry voice. Bond cranes his head; she’s sitting on a crystal throne on the other side of the room. He’d think it’s voluntary but for the jeweled choker around her neck that chains her to the chair and the furious flush in her cheeks. 

“Very humble,” Blofeld agrees with an amused tolerance. He moves to sit in a white chair next to a computer monitor. A haughty, absolutely  _ evil _ white cat with baleful eyes saunters up and jumps on his lap. Settling down gracefully, it turns a disdainful glare on Bond. 

Bond glares back. They proceed to glare at each other. A minute later, Bond realises he’s tuned out Blofeld and tunes back in just in time to hear Blofeld singing in a frankly awful falsetto..

####  **CUCKOO SONG**

A bright, childish tune begins to play.

Blofeld:    A cuckoo, you know what it does,   
        To another bird’s home?   
        The pain that it brings to the nest...   
        Little girl, do you know?   
        Cuckoo, cuckoo!

For several minutes, Bond is absolutely speechless with horror. Blofeld is singing.  _ Singing _ . Who decided this was a good idea? 

Upon noticing the awkward silence, Dr Swann rolls her eyes and mutters under her breath, “Must I answer everything around here?” before cutting in. She, at least, has a nice voice.

Dr Swann:    Replaces the offspring of another,   
        Leaves it in the care of a new mother,   
        Yes I know! 

Blofeld stands and starts walking across the room with a smug evil-villain smile, his cat jumping off to lounge in the chair instead. 

Blofeld:    Yes, nefariously it breaks,   
        It leaves no survivors.   
        That James Bond, he did this to me.   
        The pain I cause, blame him.   
        Cuckoo, cuckoo!

He cackles loudly. 

Dr Swann’s face is hilariously impassive. Dr Swann chides in a very shrinkish manner. 

Dr Swann:     The cause of all your pain, it lies in you.   
        I don’t need a degree to see that’s true. 

This is why Bond doesn’t sleep with psychologists; they’ll psychoanalyze you while in bed. There’s just no getting away from it. 

Blofeld waves this off, holding up a finger and waving it at her like she’s an errant child. Circling around the horrendously uncomfortable chair Bond is stuck in, he strokes Bond’s cheek with a slimy finger.

Blofeld:    Like a bird in a clock, you’ll break,  
        With a sad sort of singing.

Bond wiggles his wrists. They didn’t do a good job of restraining him at all. In fact…

Blofeld finishes circling Bond and resumes his place in the center of the room. Somehow, all of the fluorescent light ends up focused on him.

Blofeld:    You’d like to save him, wouldn’t you?  
        Lives are ruined by him.   
        Cuckoo, cuckoo.

There! Bond breaks free of the horrendously uncomfortable chair behind Blofeld’s back. Dr Swann, who’s staring right at him with a profoundly irritated look, looks like she wants to strangle him when he raises a finger to his lips. 

Bond stretches. His stomach growls loudly. He gives it a good rub.  Come to think of it, he hasn’t eaten in  _ hours _ , he’s feeling a bit peckish.  Surely Blofeld and Maddie won’t mind if he pops out for a nibble.

Blofeld freezes, face falling into stony lines. He starts to slowly turn towards the now-empty, horrendously uncomfortable chair. Bond makes frantic hand gestures behind his back. Dr Swann cuts in coolly with a sigh and a roll of her eyes, shooting Bond a you-owe-me look.

Dr Swann:    I’ve just met him. I make my own damn life.   
        Maybe you need a hobby, like a wife. 

Bond sees his chance and makes his escape.  Where does Blofeld keep his damn fridge? 

Smirking widely, Blofeld turns back to Dr Swann. “I have a several hobbies, I’ll have you know. Counter-intelligence, terrorism, revenge, and extortion. Also disco, but most of the others are too young to appreciate good music.”

Dr Swann stares into the camera.

Oblivious, Blofeld continues indignantly with a shake of his head, “How can you not appreciate the B-52s? Or the Monkees? I don’t care that Smash Mouths covered them in  _ Shrek _ , it’s not as good as the original.” 

Regrets. So many regrets.

Blofeld starts listing off other, even more obscure bands. “We can never seem to get a good dance party going,” he says mournfully, pouting for a moment. Then, he pauses, “Wait, you’ve gotten me off track.”

Bond sneaks back in with a half-eaten sandwich in his hands.

Dr Swann directs poison at him with her eyes. 

Blofeld:    You talk too much, you waste my time. 

Bond only winks at her and shuffles back into the horrendously uncomfortable chair, positioning himself like he was.

Blofeld hasn’t even noticed, still caught up in his raptures. 

Blofeld:    I know enough of James,   
        Once the needle hits his brain, boom!   
        He’ll be dead or insane.  
        Cuckoo, cuckoo!

Blofeld unlocks Madeline’s collar. “I’ll let you say your final goodbyes. He won’t remember you anymore. Just another pretty face.”

Dr Swann rushes over, scowling.

Dr Swann:    Bond, please, you must try; don’t let this jerk win.   
        Stay with me, or else I’ll beat your ass again 

Bond unstraps his watch and presses into her hands. 

Bond (softly):   Twist the dial to zero, zero, seven.   
        And we’ll be saved in the end. 

Confusion brushes past Blofeld’s face, but he’s too far gone to care what Bond says. 

Blofeld (big finish):   I am the author of all your pain!

“Now,” Bond says and leans back in the horrendously uncomfortable chair. He brings his legs up and kicks Blofeld square in the torso, throwing him back. The guards rush forward but stop hesitantly when Dr Swann pitches the watch across the floor. 

Their mistake.

Tick. 

_ Tick. _

_ T i c k. _

There’s a single breath of stillness as everyone stares at the watch.

Everything happens at once. 

The watch explodes, stunning everyone in the process. Seconds later, Bond and Dr Swann run for it, feet pounding on the floor. They tear out of that dreaded white room and hurl down the hallway. Why do all of these hallways look the exact same?

Bond can hardly hear, the explosion a persistent ringing in his ear. But with the ease of long practice, Bond runs nevertheless, trying to remember the way out of this labyrinth-like building. Everything looks the exact  _ same _ , what the fuck?

He sees a shortcut to his left. Without thinking twice, Bond jumps  _ through _ a window, ignoring the glass that punctures his skin at a dozen points. Somewhere behind him, Dr Swann screams a string of impressive obscenities at him. 

Upon hitting the ground with a pained thump, Bond spares a second to glance back. She’s already gone. He thinks for a moment and then shrugs. Dr Swann can take care of herself, he’s sure. 

Bond runs for the helicopter on the hill, punching a guard in the face and stealing his gun as he walks. As he goes, he shoots anyone who comes near him. The only trouble is, he doesn’t know how many bullets were in the gun. 

One down. Two. Three. 

_ Click.  _

Damn it. Bond shakes the gun and hears nothing. He’s about to try again but then finds himself looking up into the face of a grinning guard. Ugh. Well then, if that’s how they want to play this. 

Bond throws the stupid empty gun at the man’s face and is preparing to go in with his fists when the guard abruptly falls, a hole appearing in the side of his head. 

He looks to the right. 

Dr Swann shouts, “Hurry up!” and beckons for him to follow. She shoots another guard behind him while he’s trying to process the enormous submachine gun held firmly in her delicate hands. What happened to all of that “violence is not the answer” crap?

You know what. Fuck it. 

Bond runs to catch up with her and hell, Toby is with her, too. And he has that awful, white, absolutely  _ evil _ cat in his arms, looking smug as can be. 

Bond wonders if there’s a different helicopter he can take.


	14. Scene Four: The Plans of Mice, Men, and 00s Often Go Awry

##  _ Scene Four: The Plans of Mice, Men, and 00s Often Go Awry _

Q drums his fingers on the table. He jiggles his legs. When he starts tapping his feet on the floor, Moneypenny finally snaps. “Would you stop that?” she says crossly, folding her arms. 

“He’s  _ three hours  _ late!” Q hisses. He looks sorely frustrated and a few seconds away from inducing another headache-causing explosion in the Middle East for stress relief. “I lost patience two hours and fifty-nine minutes ago!”

M rolls his eyes. “Since when have you known 007 to be punctual?” He clasps his hands together and then frowns at the remnants of the markered address on the back of his hand. The skin’s red from his scrubbing, but whatever Moneypenny did, the ink isn’t going away. 

Fantastic. He’ll just live with that for the rest of his life, won’t he?

“He’ll get here,” Tanner soothes, leaning comfortably against the wall with his legs crossed.  Softer, he adds, under his breath, like they can’t all hear him loud and clear, “If he doesn’t, I’ll throw him in the bin with C.”

“Excellent idea,” Moneypenny says. There’s a dangerous glint in her eyes.  “I do so love to be efficient.”

“Is he still there by the way?” Q asks, sounding morbidly curious despite the disturbed twist to his mouth.

“Yup!” Tanner seems far too cheerful. “He’s woken up three times but the agents I stationed there keep knocking him back out. The flies are starting to think he’s food. The stench is never going to disappear from his clothing. He will always regret what he’s done - ”

“Yes, thank you, Tanner, that will be all,” M quickly cuts in before his Chief of Staff can devolve into maniacal laughter. Lord knows it would only spread like a contagion. “Q, you did send word to Bond that we would be here, right?”

“Of course!” Q says at once with an insulted look. “I had a pilot write the date and place in the sky above, uhh, a desert in Morocco?” 

“The Sahara!” Moneypenny whispers loudly. 

“Right! That!” Q smiles as if he’s proud of himself. 

For fuck’s sake. “Suddenly, I know why 007 is late,” M mutters to himself.

“Who’s late?” comes Bond’s confused voice from behind him. “What’s going on?”

Q scrambles for the prototype flesh-eating laser in his pocket, Moneypenny fires a warning shot a centimetre away from Bond’s left ear, and Tanner jumps a metre in the air and shrieks like a baby girl. 

M, who has long since been done with the lot of them, merely sighs and closes his eyes briefly. “Hello, 007,” he says, bone dry. “And where have you been?”

A meow interrupts the abruptly extraordinarily awkward silence. 

M pauses. No. That had better not be - 

He turns around. To be fair, the behemoth of a man who stands next to 007 looks very apologetic. That does not make up for the fluffy, white, scruffy, absolutely  _ evil _ cat in his arms. 

Q gasps loudly. “Kitty!” he squeals in a high-pitched voice M has never,  _ ever _ heard from his cool, calm, composed Quartermaster. To M’s horror, Q all but dives across the safehouse to snatch the cat from the man, cooing, “Aww, aren’t you a pretty girl? You’re so floofy!”

“Her name is Pampuria,” the stranger supplies helpfully.

When M turns his glare on Bond, his top rogue agent looks almost sheepish. “Sorry, sir. I fought Toby to throw the little monster out of the helicopter a dozen times, but it just wouldn’t die.”

The beautiful blonde next to Toby - and far away from Bond - sniffs and raises her nose in the air. “Cats have nine lives, you know,” she says arrogantly. 

Tanner looks warily at where Toby, Q, and Moneypenny are all crowded around Pampuria. “A dozen is greater than nine,” he points out. “And speaking of nine, we-”

“Look,” the blonde woman says, crossing her arms, “she’s obviously still alive, so your math is wrong.”

M is struck speechless. Tanner looks horrified.

Bond sighs and says sotto-voce, “Ignore Dr Swann. She’s just jealous.”

Dr Swann huffs. “Am not.”

“Am too.”

“Am not.”

“Am - ”

M wonders when he was left in charge of a kindergarten class. The former M never once let on how difficult it was to shepherd MI6; he finds that he respects her these days far more than he did when she was alive. 

“Shut up,” he commands sharply and is a tad placated when the safehouse goes silent. In the quiet, he can almost hear Mansfield’s ghost laughing at him. “I need some fucking sleep,” M complains. “Tell me you actually killed Mr Blofeld, 007.”

Bond pauses a little too long. “Well, sir...I didn’t see a body, and I never confirm a kill until I see a body.”

M groans and buries his face in his arms. 

After a moment, Toby whispers audibly, “Is he dead?”

_ How rude.  _ “No, I’m bloody well not!” M raises his head to glare. But Toby only arches his thick eyebrows and looks unimpressed. No one has any respect these days. 

“Though if we don’t get to work, we all might be.” Trust Tanner to get everyone focused. M knew there’s a reason he keeps the man around. “Nine Eyes is set to go live in an hour - ”

“67 minutes,” Q interrupts without looking up from petting the fur devil. 

“Whatever. And we know C is working with Blofeld so if he isn’t dead, he’s bound to be here too.”

“Blofeld’s here.” Moneypenny interrupts this time, waving her phone in the air. “Air traffic control has him in a helicopter ten minutes from the city.”

“Thank you for keeping us informed,” M says dryly. Honestly, you would think they were all spies or something, with the way they keep secrets. Oh wait, they are. He wants to crawl into a cave to escape the madness. Maybe there’s a hidden tunnel in Q Branch’s new location. 

Finally, Q leaves the cat and straightens up. “I can take down Nine Eyes. After all, four eyes are better than nine.” He grins at his own lame joke. No one else does. Not even Tanner cracks a grin.

Bond reaches over and pats him on the shoulder in consolation. 

Suspicious.  

Q pouts and doesn’t shrug the contact off. Even more suspicious. “I just need a blunt instrument to watch my back. I’ll actually need two hands to type tonight and I haven’t had the chance to wire the floors of the new building yet.”

M wonders what he means by  _ yet _ and decides he doesn’t want to know. “I’ll go.”

Only, he isn’t the only voice that speaks. Bond volunteered, too. This is beyond suspicious now. He wonders if he’ll have to go talk to HR when this is all over. M hates talking to HR; they always scowl at him for his salary. 

As if it’s even all that impressive. Sometimes, he thinks he should have gone into the private sector. 

Bond looks at M. He doesn’t even have the decency to pretend innocence or humbleness. “Sir, with all due respect, I’m a better shot. I’ll protect the Quartermaster.”

“And with no modicum of respect at all, I don’t give a damn,” M says, much too tired to censor his words. “I don’t care to know why Blofeld is so obsessed with you, but if he’s in London, he’ll want you. And if you’re with Q, he’ll take you both. I’ll protect Q. You go take a stroll in plain sight, and for once, just shoot before the dramatic monologues start.”

Bond’s face sets into hard lines. M turns away before he can see how 007’s trying to plot his death. This time. He makes a note to buy an attack cat for his flat. And to make more excuses to his poor wife. Damn, this stunt will probably earn him a month on the sofa. Again.

“And what about us?” Dr Swann asks. 

Drat. M forgot about that pest. “I don’t care. Just take the cat and the former henchman out of here. And stay away.”

“Gladly. Come on, Toby, I’ll treat you to ice cream.” She smiles warmly, clearly besotted. Toby’s returning smile is just as sicking, and without hesitation, he links arms with Dr Swann, scoops up the cat in the other, and leaves the safehouse. 


	15. Scene Five: Plans A through F

##  _ Scene Five: Plans A through F _

At first, things go according to plan. 

M and Q drive to the CNS building and climb the ridiculous spiral glass staircase to C’s office. The lockpick Q hides in his hair ensures there’s no barrier to entry. Q immediately hacks his way into a computer and shuts down Nine Eyes, quick as you please. 

The countdown, which was really only there so the missing C could show off, lets M know that Q accomplished his task in seven minutes. With a somewhat petty look, Q lets the countdown continue as a decoy. 

No use in letting the enemy know their plans were foiled with 42 minutes left to go, after all.

* * *

 

Bond wanders across Lambeth bridge. Not that it’s truly wandering. He knows where Blofeld is going and he may as well shorten the trip. Somewhere behind him, Tanner and Eve are stalking him, waiting for a clear line of sight to his half-brother so they can shoot him before he can open his mouth. They don’t trust Bond to do it, apparently. 

He should feel offended. But he’s tired. This whole mission has been one fiasco after another, and honestly they’ve learned nothing. The real problem was always Nine Eyes, not a jealous family member. Bond ran around the world, learned next to nothing, and now here he is, back in London. 

Sure, he got some sun in the desert, but he would’ve preferred Jamaica. Mr White’s finally dead, but that guy would’ve been maggot food within a day or two anyway. 

Maybe it’s the morose thoughts or maybe it’s the fact that it’s been a long fucking night. Either way, he completely misses the footsteps behind him and is utterly unprepared for the bag that is yanked over his head. 

A familiar pinch at his neck and then -

Darkness. 

His old friend.

* * *

 

Q has just finished erasing all of the Nine Eyes code, the backups, and the backups of backups on C’s shitty computer, when he receives a text from Eve. 

“Shit.”

M looks up from where he’s carving rude drawings into the wood of the former C’s desk. It’s an ugly, extravagant thing anyway. “What?”

“They lost Bond.”

“Again? Well, add it to his tally. He’ll get himself out of it, I’m sure. Onwards.” M returns to his self-appointed task.

That’s what Bond gets for getting kidnapped so often, Q supposes, but damned if Q doesn’t worry about him regardless. Sighing, he quickly sends new instructions to Eve -  _ Get to Q-Branch now -  _ and then opens up his own computer.

Nine Eyes might’ve been an impressive surveillance system, but it was nothing compared to the resources Q has on hand. 

Within seconds, he has access to every camera in London. Even a few dozen the City wrote off as dead. A minute later and Q has eyes on Bond. He’s standing at the entrance to the former MI6 headquarters, a bag over his head. Just another Wednesday then, Q thinks. 

He watches as Bond frees his hands and rips off the bag. The idiot man walks right into the building...which is currently wired with a few dozen explosives for the demolition. “Why the fuck,” Q says flatly.

* * *

 

Bond blinks at the familiar-looking double doors in front of him. Isn’t this...the former MI6? Just as he expected. Is it a trap? Probably. He shrugs and walks inside. 

Spray-painted on the memorial wall in a toddler’s scrawl is his name and a large arrow. So it is a trap then. Good to know. 

Not having any other better direction to go, he follows the arrow off to the left and down the hall that used to lead to... Medical. He stops and turns around. Anywhere but there. 

Way off in the distance, he hears screams. Familiar screams, from a train ride he doesn’t ever want to relive again. Is that...Dr Swann? Didn’t she leave with ...Todd? Thomas? Whatever that guy’s name is? Why is she here?

Maybe Blofeld grabbed her because his henchman told him she has fantastic lungs. Although, it’s more likely he thinks Bond’s in love with her or something similarly outrageous. Villains these days really have no sense of creativity. 

Even though he isn’t - in love with her, that is - Bond isn’t quite so heartless as to leave someone crying out in pain when he can help them. Not that he enjoyed hearing her scream in pleasure either. 

“Why does it always come to this,” he mutters with a groan and takes a deep breath in before sprinting upward through the maze of the building, following the desperate, echoing shrieks.

* * *

 

Q puts his head in his hands.  _ Not again.  _

Muttering irritably under his breath, he texts Eve with another update on Bond and watches as their car pulls away from the Q-Branch garage with a screech of tires. Hopefully, they’ll be able to catch up to Bond before he gets blown up. Like the last time this happened. 

Then, he hunts through the phone network to find Dr Swann’s number. It doesn’t take nearly as long as it should. She’s uploading hundreds of pictures of Toby and Pampuria to the Cloud. Q takes a minute to reward himself by looking at a few of them. 

He smiles at a pic of the pretty, floofy cat lying elegantly under soft moonlight and hits dial.

“Hello?” Dr Swann answers.

“Don’t hang up, this is Q,” he orders sharply. “Bond’s about to be a martyr and ruin everything again. Get to Westminster Bridge if you’d like revenge.” 

There’s a tense pause. Over the CCTV, Q sees her cover the phone and exchange words with Toby, her brow furrowed. “We’ll be there,” she says finally, with an edge to her voice that’s more annoyance than anything else.  

* * *

 

Trying to remember his way through this maze of a building would be easier if Blofeld wouldn’t keep taunting him over the tannoy. Of all the things that still work in this ancient place, it just has to be that old pain in the arse. 

“I am the author of all your pain,” he cackles. “Le Chiffre, Mr White, Silva, the death of your precious M. That was all me.”

**M: “You wish.”**

Bond twitches. For a second, he thought he heard M’s voice, but that’s obviously his guilt and delusions talking. Maybe he should take Psych up on their long-standing invitation when all of this is over.

The screams are louder now. He must be nearly there. At least he knows this part of the building well: this was the hallway leading to M’s office. He scoffs, disgusted that Blofeld would tarnish M’s memory like this. 

Bond yanks aside the one quilted door left standing after Silva’s attack. Blofeld is standing on the balcony, just on the other side of a large chasm in the middle of the floor. So Bond can’t charge straight at him then. Pity. 

Bond glances around but doesn’t see Dr Swann. He still hears the screams, though. Then, with a click, they stop. Eye twitching, Bond looks back at Blofeld. Only now does he notice the large boombox held proudly on his shoulder. 

“Fooled again,” Blofeld crows. “How utterly predictable.”

_ Don’t let him monologue _ , Mallory said. He may as well obey for once in his life. Bond pulls out his gun and takes a shot. The gun clicks. He’s out of bullets. Fuck.

“You always were terrible at counting,” Blofeld says. “Father was so proud when you finally learned to count to fifty. Little did he know you only managed it by counting the number of imaginary friends you had.”

Well, if he can’t shoot him, he’ll just have to punch him, Bond decides. He tentatively creeps around the chasm, retorting, “Good thing you chose to count blades of grass then. If you’d counted the number of friends you had, you would’ve never made it past two.”

Bond is a footstep away from his half-brother now, staring into the sick bastard’s blatantly crazy eyes. Talk about cuckoo. The world doesn’t need him. He pulls back his arm, falling into his stance. It’s going to feel so good to smash his face in.

Sadly, he never gets the chance to find out. 

Without warning, Blofeld launches the boombox off of his shoulder, and it slams into Bond with a thud, knocking him off balance. A small little click is all the warning he gets before screams start assaulting his ears again. The momentum of the impact pushes him back a step. 

And one step is all it takes. 

Bond falls backwards into the large hole. Laughter, fake screams, and the whirl of a helicopter ring in his ears. 

Well, shit. 

He let him monologue. M is never going to let him live this down.

* * *

 

“Somehow, he’s not dead yet,” Q relays to Tanner over the phone. “You’ll find him in the net.”

Tanner looks up and sure enough, Bond is flailing in the net above him. If Tanner isn’t mistaken, he can also hear high-pitched screams and some B-movie villain laughter. 

“Need a hand?” he calls dully. 

Bond stops moving and looks down. He says nothing for a minute, apparently trying to determine which answer would be the most dignified. There is, of course, no good answer. “Yes,” he grits out at last with a sullen look.

Tanner puts his phone in his pocket and grabs his knife. Bond didn’t even know he carries one, let alone one that looks a bit more like a sword than a switchblade. Tanner slashes the rope easily and Bond falls the remaining couple metres into Tanner’s arms. 

“You’re heavy,” Tanner grunts and lets Bond drop. 

“Rude.” Rolling to his feet, Bond immediately slams his hand on the boombox’s control button and stops the deafening shrieks. “Where’s Moneypenny?” he asks. 

“Waiting at Westminster,” Tanner replied. “Come on. No time to waste if you want to watch the show.”

* * *

 

Eve is watching the tracker on her phone when Dr Swann approaches without her boyfriend and the adorable cat. “Q said something about revenge?” she prompts with a hand on her hip and alert eyes.

Eve nods. “I’ve got Blofeld’s copter on the radar. Just waiting for him to come in range.”

“Then what?”

“We blow his arse to smithereens.” Eve grins fiercely as she strokes the rocket launcher set up next to her. 

Dr Swann’s returning smile is perfectly ladylike and sweetly bloodthirsty. “I can’t wait,” she says. “Where is he now?”

“Waiting for the building to blow,” Eve reports. “He thinks Bond is still inside. And he would be if Tanner hadn’t gotten him out.” She shakes her head. “Oh, hold on. Building is going in three...two...one.”

Small bursts of light flicker into existence along Vauxhall’s lower floors, quickly followed by a series of low booms that break the night silence. The old, proud glory of the British intelligence crumbles slowly and then all at once, vanishing smoothly into the river.

It’s a bit sad, really. 

To the south, a helicopter comes into view. 

“Would you like to do the honours?” Eve asks politely. “I’m fairly certain that he’s caused you more pain than he ever caused me.” Even with all of Bond and Q’s shenanigans in the mix. Those two  _ think _ they’re subtle. 

Dr Swann nods, firm and with a spark of excitement that Eve can approve of. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Put your hands here and here.” Eve gently places the other woman’s hand in the correct positions. “Look through here to aim, and press the button next to your right thumb to fire.”

Dr Swann maneuvers the large instrument with a surprising amount of skill, her head cocked and her eyes on the black sky. The sound of the helicopter is getting louder, gusts of wind tugging at their hair and clothes. “Let me know when.”

“Look into the scope. When the entire field of view is taken up by the copter, you can fire,” Eve says. “The automatic guiding will do the rest.” A flicker to the left catches her eye, and Eve smirks when she sees Tanner and Bond making their way up the hill. 

“Oh, look, the boys have arrived to see how it’s done.” She cups her hands around her mouth and shouts teasingly, “Watch and learn, Bond!”

Bond responds with a rude gesture. 

“Nearly there,” Dr Swann mutters. The helicopter is closer now, a large dot against stars. They can just barely make out the pilot. “Three...two...one.” With admirable calm and steel, she presses the button and is jolted back abruptly by the kick of the projectile launching. 

Eve watches in delight as the auxiliary rockets she mounted on other places along the bridge also fire, only a split second afterwards. Seven streaks of light, fueled by cheerful revenge, pierce the sides of the helicopter. 

A heartbeat of silence. The world stops...and Eve smiles. 

_ Boom.  _

The explosion of light is searingly bright, the sound deafening. A more splendid end than Vauxhall; there’s something ironic about that. Eve shields her eyes with her hand despite herself but then rapidly lifts her head again, because she never could resist watching a good explosion. 

What a glorious, beautiful sight. 

The flaming remains fall into the Thames with an eerie  _ hiss _ . Boats swarm to the wreckage in minutes, and she watches as they poke through the charred remains. At last, a flashlight from one of the boats gives the signal. 

Blofeld is dead.


	16. Scene Six: The Happily Ever After?

##  _ Scene Six: The Happily Ever After? _

By the time Bond recovers from the ringing in his ears and gets to the crime scene, Dr Swann has already made her get away with Moneypenny’s number in her pocket for future spa sessions. Undoubtedly, she’ll be out of the country with Toby and Pampuria before daybreak. 

The place is swarming with police and a doctor is verifying that his wicked stepbrother is dead.  It’s a pity no one found a house to drop on him.

Despite that, none of them have the idiocy to approach Moneypenny, who stands in the middle of the chaos with a bright dress and a cheerful smile. “James! There you are! Where’ve you been?” she asks with a twinkle in her eye. 

“Getting my ears assaulted,” Bond mutters. And then, “Where’s Q? And M.”

“M’s doing politics and Q is probably at home, cozying up to his cats and his mortgage,” Moneypenny deadpans. “Why, do you want his address?”

“If I wanted Q’s address, I’d have Q’s address,” Bond answers automatically. He does indeed have Q’s address in fact. He turns to observe all of the transportation available at the scene before a sudden, naughty idea occurs to him. Smirking, he turns back to a visibly more wary Moneypenny. 

“Say...do you still have access to Q-Branch?”

“At this time?” Moneypenny verifies, glancing at her watch dubiously. 

Bond arches an eyebrow at her. “Q-Branch never sleeps. You know that.”

Moneypenny sighs and props a hand on her hip. “And why do you want to go to Q-Branch?”

“Well…”

Bond pulls up to Q’s flat half an hour later. By the time he walks up all of the stairs, Q is waiting for him, arms crossed and face profoundly unimpressed. “You stole my Aston Martin,” he says flatly. “You stole my Aston Martin to come  _ see me not ten minutes away in a cab _ .”

Bond just smiles charmingly and dangles the key from his finger. “I thought you’d want to show up to The Ledbury in style.” 

“The Ledbury?” Q raises his eyebrows. “You need reservations at least five months ahead to go there. And why tonight of all nights? I was expecting maybe Chinese take-away and sleeping in until noon tomorrow.”

“First of all, you don’t need a reservation if you saved the head chef’s husband in Estonia. And second, it’s the anniversary of our first meeting.” Bond exudes happy smugness. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

From the way Q stills, he forgot. After a second of composing himself, he growls and snatches his coat from the hook beside the door. “Taking me out for our anniversary in a car you stole from me. That’s a bloody cheek.”

“I do my best,” Bond replies and offers Q his hand. Q hesitates a moment before grasping it.

####  **A TURNER LOVE SONG**

A triumphant theme begins. The minions sing like a choir of angels from the theatre boxes.

Q:        The inevitability of time really blinded me as to what you were,  
         How could I know, it’s like I never existed before.  
         Until I saw you, insulted you,   
         exchanged verbal jabs with you,  
         I would have never known.

Bond:      How small my world has become because of you.  
         And I could die another day,  
         Never knowing you.  
         An empty house,   
         within this heart of mine,

Q/B TOGETHER: I could love you,  
         With the time that’s given,  
         Die another day,  
         It’s a risk I’ll take.

Q:        In this world so far and wide,  
         none of us are perfect.

BOND (interrupts): You still have spots.

Q:        You break my stuff,  
         But we can be a perfect fit.

Q/B TOGETHER: I could love you,  
         With the time that’s given.  
         Die another day,  
         It’s a risk I’ll take.

BOND:      The idea of losing you,  
         Separated forever,   
         don’t you see, with the time that’s given..

Q:        It breaks my heart.

Bond:      You mean gears.

Q:        Shut up.

Q/B TOGETHER: I could love you,  
         With the time that’s given.  
         Die another day,  
         It’s a risk I’ll take.

Q:        I thought you were done.

Bond:      I am, I just need one last thing.

Bond puts his foot on the gas and they speed away. A small jewelry box sits heavy in his pocket. 

**M: How traditional. A diamond. Well, I didn’t expect anything else from him. Diamonds are forever, after all.**

The End

*Bond trumpet sounds*


End file.
